I Get By
by LithiumAddict
Summary: After being rescued by an unlikely classmate, things get complicated. Romy.
1. A Ride Home

**TITLE: **I Get By

**SUMMARY: **After being rescued by an unlikely classmate, things get complicated.

**CHARACTERS: **Marie, Remy, Bobby

**RATING: **T

**WARNINGS: **None, for this chapter. Beware of some language to come.

**DISCLAIMER: **I, LithiumAddict, a.k.a. Percy O'Leary, am not in any way shape or form connected to Marvel Comics, Fox Entertainment, or any other related group. I therefore do not own any of the characters represented here. This is fan-fiction, and a labour of love on my part and in no way an intention to undermine the previously mentioned organizations or their intellectual property.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **This was originally a oneshot entitled "Oral Fixation", spawned by listening to the Hawksley Workman song "I'm Jealous Of Your Cigarette" too many times. Thanks to some gentle prodding by some fabulous readers, it grew from there in to the story you see before you.

What you're looking at is "I Get By", a work that remains in progress at this date of May 22nd, 2010. With every chapter update, I upload cleaned up versions of previous chapters. The only difference is (and will ever be) mild editorial work, nothing more. It's a lot of messing with the wordings of sentences, correcting grammar, evening Remy's accent, and making the story flow better. No plot gets changed, and you certainly don't need to re-read the whole story each time a new chapter comes up. The adjustments are more for my own satisfaction than anything else.

Thanks for giving this a chance. Above all, I ask only this – and I'm sure that those of you who know me by now will be able to guess what it is -- enjoy.

Well, this was just peachy.

What had started out as a great day was quickly becoming grounds for violent action. Against who, Marie had yet to decide, but she was certain that someone was going to be hurt for this.

"Can you say that again?" she asked, barely keeping a rein on the scream that had been building up at the back of her throat for the past ten minutes. The man behind the counter, whose nametag identified him as Aaron, nodded sympathetically.

"Your car's in no shape to get you home. We can fix it, but it's gonna take some time."

_Breathe, _she ordered herself. _In, out. In, out. _

"How much time?"

"A couple days."

"A couple days?"

Disbelief (and more than a little frustration) tainted her echo of his statement. Aaron shrugged, apologetic.

"Your motor's officially toasted. If anyone can resurrect that beast, it's Lucas. He's not in until tomorrow afternoon though." A small smile tugged at his mouth, one of those _wouldn't-you-just-know-it_ sort of grins. "Lucky stiff's on his honeymoon right now."

She sighed resignedly, rubbing at her forehead to ward off the steadily rising tension that had settled there.

"But he can fix it?"

He nodded before handing her a clipboard and pen that he seemed to produce from thin air.

"No doubt about it. Just fill this out, and we'll call you once we've got your baby fighting fit again."

She took what was offered and scribbled in the information that the form requested before pressing it back in to his hands. Aaron looked at her askance for a moment, his features touched with mild concern.

"You want me to call you a cab or something?"

A shake of her head preceded her actual response.

"One of my friends should be able to give me a lift. You got a phone I could borrow?"

Aaron dug in to his pocket and pulled out a clunky black cell phone, far too big to be practical, and handed it over. With a murmured thanks, she punched in a familiar sequence of seven numbers and raised it to her ear. Three agonizing rings passed before it was answered.

"Xavier Institute."

She recognized that boredom-laced voice instantly. It was Remy LeBeau, the Louisiana boy who had been dragged in to the mansion by Ororo a few months ago after the latest student recruitment drive. She sat in front of him in English, and as far as she knew, he was an okay guy. Of course, she didn't necessarily know very far when it came to him. They may have shared a class, but he made a fine art of keeping to himself.

"Hey Remy. It's Marie calling."

This seemed to get his attention.

"What's up?"

"Is Bobby there?"

"Nope. Out playin' hero with the rest of the leather squad."

She swore softly at this. It was just her luck that her knight in icy armor would be busy slaying other dragons when she was in need.

"Rogue? What's wrong?"

"My car bit the dust while I was out today. Managed to get it to a garage, but the guy here says it's gonna be a couple days before the right person can look at it."

"Where y'at?"

"Ryerson Repairs, out in Englewood."

There was a brief pause on the other end that made Marie feel vaguely uncomfortable.

"Sit tight," he ordered. "I'll be there in a few."

xXx

She was sitting on the curb outside of the garage when a black, mid-nineties model sedan pulled in to the parking lot. The engine was killed and the driver's side door swung open to allow its operator to step out. Six feet and four inches of gangly male greeted the sun with a grimace, adjusting a pair of aviator shades that threatened to overwhelm his gaunt face. The grimace became marginally more pleasant once his gaze settled on Marie. He bobbed his head in a rather curt greeting that appeared to be more of custom than of care, but she was too grateful for the rescue to dwell too much on it.

"I owe you for this," she said as she approached the car. He waved a dismissive hand at her words, as if to scatter them to the wind. His mouth twitched in something resembling a smile anyways.

"S'alright. Hop in."

She opened the passenger door to see a set of textbooks resting on her seat – Art History, English, Advanced Calculus. Remy, who had already taken his seat, looked marginally embarrassed.

"Sorry about that. Just throw 'em in the back."

Marie nodded, picking up the books and shifting the seat forward in order to gain access to the backseat. A couple binders rested there, kept company by the occasional sheet of loose college rule covered in hasty diagrams and boxy text. A pair of well-worn combat boots sat on the floor behind the driver's seat atop a dark, folded jacket that after a wash or two might have proven to be a trench coat. She set the books down next to the binders before righting the passenger seat and sliding in. Remy turned the key in the ignition as she buckled up, and they were off.

The first few minutes of their journey home passed in silence, save for the quiet hum of the speakers and the music seeping through them. The few minutes after that passed in much the same way, except that it was a different song playing in the background. In Marie's opinion though, this one sounded an awful lot like the last one . . . and the one before that too. An angry guitar riff -- though any power it might have held was detracted from by the low volume that Remy had set it at -- and incoherent screaming, accompanied by the sneaking sense that if one were to slow it down to the point where the lyrics became intelligible, they would be about human sacrifice and other blasphemies. Marie contented herself with looking out the window and watching the world go by. The fact that Remy seemed to be growing antsy, however, didn't escape her. He had started drumming his fingers on the steering wheel about a song and a half ago, and had been doing so with increasing rapidity ever since. This continued for another few moments before Remy let out an exasperated breath.

"Y'mind if I smoke?" he asked, shooting a brief, almost pleading glance towards Marie before returning his attention to the road. "I got a craving somethin' fierce."

Marie shook her head.

"No. Go for it."

The relief on his face came and went so quickly that she wasn't even sure she had seen it.

"Could you pass 'em over?"

He gestured towards the glove compartment as he spoke, and Marie opened it up to reveal a motley collection of insurance papers, phone numbers scrawled alongside names, and what were most likely directions. She fished about for a moment, and was rewarded with the discovery of a half-empty pack of cigarettes and one of those cheap plastic lighters that you could get in packs of four in grocery store checkout lines. She examined the package for a brief moment, and she couldn't help but let out a stilted snicker. She shot her chauffer a wry glance.

"Unfiltered?"

Remy raised an eyebrow.

"Y'gonna give me a 'those'll kill you' lecture?"

She pulled a cigarette out of the package and looked at it thoughtfully.

"That'd be mighty hypocritical of me then, wouldn't it?"

And with that, she lit up and took a long, hard drag before passing it over to a rather stunned Remy.

"You're a smoker?" he asked, receiving it with a surprising grace for one so shocked. Marie shrugged, fingering the package awkwardly. Maybe that hadn't been as good an idea as she'd thought.

"Yeah. I guess."

"Y'guess."

_In for a penny . . ._

Lips pursed, Marie rolled down her window and pulled out one more cigarette. A moment of silence passed as she lit up, took a pull, and blew an ill-formed imitation of a smoke ring out the window.

"I may not have my powers anymore, but I still got everyone I ever absorbed banging around in my head. They still surface every once in a while." She sat there for a moment, cigarette dangling between her fingers as she tried to gauge Remy's reaction. He nodded at her words, expression otherwise impassive . . . or maybe it was just the sunglasses. Those aviators made him damn near impossible to read.

"Who'd y'pick that vice up from?

"Pete."

"You're kidding."

"Nope. Boy's the worst chain smoker I ever met."

His incredulity was actually rather amusing. She allowed herself to indulge in a grin as he shook his head in wonder.

"You think you know a guy. . ."

A particularly painful screech burst forth from the car's speakers, at which Marie cringed a little. This was music? Remy seemed to notice her distaste.

"I can pop this CD out if y'like."

"No, no. It's okay," she murmured, tapping her cigarette over the side of her open window. "Who is this?"

He replied after a sharp inhale of his own cigarette.

"They're called _Circonférence d'un Carré. _French screamo band that's big across the pond."

"Seer-con-fer-once dune cah-ray?" she tried, the words sounding nowhere near as smooth or assured coming from her mouth. Remy grinned as he reached and tugged open the car's ashtray and encouraged the loose ash at the tip of his cigarette to fall in.

"Means 'Circumference of a Square' in English. My brother stuffed it in the last care package my family sent." He snorted a little at this. "Idiot spends a month in France and all of a sudden he's an expert on the scene."

Marie blinked, taking a second to let the words sink in. His family . . .

"Your family's okay with you being a mutant? They still accept you?"

His glance shifted away from the road as he snatched a quick, albeit confused, look at the girl in his passenger seat.

"Well, yeah. Why shouldn't they? S'not like I'm a different person for havin' powers."

Her eyes shifted towards the floor of the car as she recalled a certain lazy summer day some time ago when she had been talking with David about the plans she had made for her trip, and they had . . . she banished the thought with a shake of her head.

"My momma and poppa would probably tell you different."

Remy sucked in an uncomfortable breath.

"I didn't mean it like--"

"It's okay," she assured him, though she knew her voice was still alarmingly soft. "I don't talk about it much."

He looked towards her again, lips pursed in contrition.

"S'your story, your choice. We all got parts of us we need t'keep to ourselves."

She nodded, thankful for his tact.

"It's not much of a story anyways," she said, sounding sorry as she brushed aside what was likely the defining moment of her life. "My powers manifested, I hurt someone real bad, my parents kicked me out."

She took a deep drag of her cigarette to not only occupy her mouth and thereby prevent herself from saying something stupid, but to hide the nerves that were starting to fray at her recollection of that day. The nicotine had lost its appeal, but the part of her mind that was Pete wouldn't allow her to reach over and squish it out yet. Remy followed suit, looking particularly thoughtful before speaking again.

"I'm willing to bet it's more of a story than you're lettin' on."

She shrugged, mouth twitching slightly.

"I don't talk about it much."

"Not even to Bobby?"

_That _got her attention. It was the way he had said it in particular that had caught her. Was that resentment she heard?

"Sorry, sorry," Remy apologized, though it didn't really sound like he meant it. "I'm gettin' up in your business. S'not my place."

Marie fixed him with a critical look.

"There something between you and Bobby I should know about?"

He shook his head.

"Nope. Nothin'."

"I don't buy that for a second. Try again."

Remy sighed softly before offering a rather cryptic reply.

"He's got a bad habit of playin' with toys that ain't his to start with," he began, sending a significant look towards Marie. "Boy doesn't look after his own things so well either."

She frowned at these words, not really sure she wanted to understand their full meaning. A hazy sense of familiarity was creeping up on her from behind, like she ought to have known what he meant. She fended it off with another drag.

"So, what's all in these care packages your family makes up?"

The question sounded far too casual to her ears, but Remy seemed appreciative for the change in subject. He launched in to an answer with a gusto that was just as forced as the flippancy she herself had feigned, but grew more and more genuine as he continued.

"My brother and cousins send me CDs. Sometimes I wonder about their taste though – Emil 'specially. Kid's a pretty-boy, in to that emo crap." He paused to shake his head ruefully and steal a quick pull at his cigarette before continuing. "M'dad sends me smokes, coffee, and a cheque every month. He sometimes writes 'bout what's happenin' at home, but he's a busy man. Doesn't always have the time. My aunt, Mattie, she sends me books."

"What kind?"

"Any and all. Last one was a translation of some Russian horror novel she figured I'd like. I gotta remember to thank her next time I call home."

A sad smile wended its way across his face, the expression mirrored in Marie's.

"You miss them, huh?"

He nodded soberly.

"Like hell." There was a pause as he changed lanes. "Here we are."

They turned in to the mansion grounds and worked their way down the almost comically long driveway. Waiting at the end was a small student parking lot that had been put in at the beginning of this year due to the sharp increase in enrolment, particularly in the older teen demographic. Remy ended up pulling in to a spot between a new white Beamer that Marie recognized as belonging to Emma Frost (a vanity plate bearing the epithet "DIAMOND" was a dead giveaway) and a beat up pickup whose owner she couldn't place. The two of them then took turns butting out their cigarettes before closing the ashtray and hiding Remy's smoking paraphernalia in the glove box once more. Smoking wasn't prohibited on campus per say, but it was frowned upon with a vengeance. Before turning the vehicle off, Remy opened up the center consul and pulled out a package of gum.

"Want some?" he asked, proffering it to Marie. She accepted, and pressed a piece from the blister pack in to her hand before passing it back to Remy, who did so as well. The two popped their gum in to their mouths in what was close to synchronicity, which would have struck Marie as odd were she not busy being attacked by extremely potent mint flavour.

"Burns like a mother, don't it?" Remy grinned as he turned off the ignition. "Covers up the smell real well though."

Rogue nodded, not trusting her mouth enough to speak as she stepped out of the car. The burn eventually dissipated in to a mild tingle as she chewed on, waiting for Remy to get out as well. The two then set off across the front lawn towards the doors of the mansion.

"Thanks again for the ride, Remy."

"Like I said, s'not a problem. You're good company."

The two of them meandered on in silence, the quiet building like a pressure until Remy spoke again.

"I hang out on the roof a lot. North wing." He jammed his hands in to the back pockets of his jeans, looking towards something at his feet that only he could see. "Y'need a place to get away to sometime, you can always join--"

"Marie!"

Both of their gazes snapped towards the source of the noise – Bobby, obviously fresh out of his leathers, standing on the front steps of the mansion. He came down the stairs at a fairly good clip before dashing across the lawn to where Marie and Remy stood.

"Hey," he smiled, stepping in between the two of them and wrapping Marie in a tight hug. "Where've you been?"

"My car broke down while I was out."

"And you didn't call?"

"I _did_. You weren't there, so Remy came and gave me a ride."

Bobby nodded, turning to address Remy with an appreciative smile. Marie looked towards him as well, and found herself taken aback at the change in his stance. Perfect posture, ramrod straight, replaced the slight slouch that she had thought he favored. A distinct tension had wound its way through his shoulders, and the only apt comparison she could come up with was to a soldier standing at attention.

"Thanks for looking out for Marie, Remy. I owe--"

"Give my regards to Kitty, hmm?"

Marie could feel Bobby's hand tense on her shoulder in time with the tightening of her jaw. A bitter smile spread across Remy's face as he brushed by the both of them and stalked off towards the mansion. Bobby ran a bewildered hand through his hair.

"What's his problem?"

Marie was honestly not sure.


	2. Fire in the Kitchen

**TITLE: **I Get By

**SUMMARY: **After being rescued by an unlikely classmate, things get complicated.

**CHARACTERS: **Bobby, Remy

**RATING: **T

**WARNINGS: **Language.

**DISCLAIMER: **I, LithiumAddict, a.k.a. Percy O'Leary, am not in any way shape or form connected to Marvel Comics, Fox Entertainment, or any other related group. I therefore do not own any of the characters represented here. This is fan-fiction, and a labour of love on my part and in no way an intention to undermine the previously mentioned organizations, or their intellectual property.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **As those who I have discussed this story with will tell you, I find Bobby a ridiculously difficult character to write. While Remy, Rogue, and their relationship come relatively easy for me, I have to fight with the words in order to bring Bobby out in a way that I myself find believable. I get frustrated with a lot of movieverse Remy/Rogue fic due to the way the supposedly 'inevitable' breakup between Rogue and Bobby is handled. One of my major goals in this story is to show Bobby, Rogue, and their relationship in a realistic light, and I'm hoping against hope that I nail it. Please, feel free to let me know either way. Your responses mean the world to me, and in some cases even dictate the direction that this story goes in.

* * *

Bobby rolled over in his bed. Again.

Nothing in the room had changed since the previous roll, save for the bright red digits of his clock radio. They currently read 2:36, a two minute difference from the last time he'd checked.

"Well, crap," he stated aloud, not bothering to lower his voice out of respect for the ungodly hour he found himself facing. He had been lying there for, what? Five hours now? And despite that, he was no closer to sleep than he had been those five or so hours ago. He was no stranger to these bouts of insomnia – they struck every once in a while, and he'd come to accept that.

Though he didn't know the cause of these sleepless nights, he did know the cure. He had been indulging in it before being so rudely interrupted by a whole freaking platoon of Navy Seals, or whatever the hell they had been, some time ago now.

Unfortunately, that cure lay in the kitchen, which would mean rolling out of his nice, cozy bed to walk across the mansion in order to get it. Maybe if he just waited it out . . .

He glanced at the clock one more time. 2:37.

What day was it now? It took Bobby's slightly addled brain a few moments to come up with the answer of Thursday. A slight groan escaped his lips as he realized this. Thursday meant World History class at eight in the morning. That was six hours and . . . some minutes away. He was really in no mental state to do the math right now.

Six hours and a bit until class, and he still had yet to sleep. He didn't even have the luxury of devoting that whole time sleep if he wanted breakfast and a shower before class. Which he kind of did.

That settled it. Bobby sat up and swung his feet over the bed rather unceremoniously, reaching down and grabbing a dirty tee-shirt off the floor to pull on over his flannel boxers. He shoved off the bed with a reticent sigh and trudged across the room with the all the grace of a zombie. There was even a pained _uuurgh _noise as he banged his hip on his desk, inconveniently located right next to the door.

"Stupid desk," he mumbled, rubbing at his wounded side. The thoughts running through his head were far more violent and angry than that, but Bobby had decided that cussing out the desk wasn't worth the effort. Especially when there were more important things, such as ice cream and sleep, to be focusing on.

He slipped out in to the hall with all the quiet he could muster. This particular corridor boasted a couple creaky floorboards that had to be avoided unless he felt like sharing his ten-dollars-a-carton, creamery-fresh ice cream with whoever he managed to wake up. Bobby thought of himself as nice guy, but there were just some things he just wasn't willing to share.

The journey itself was rather uneventful. He avoided all the right spots, took all the right shortcuts, and soon found himself approaching the kitchen. Something wasn't quite right though -- there was light streaming from out the door and into the hall.

"What the . . ." he whispered, creeping closer. Who else would be up at this hour? Any other day he would have guessed Logan, but as far as he knew the man who called himself Wolverine had left town for a while on an errand for Storm. Something about school business bullshit, if the mutterings Bobby had overheard as Logan stomped out the front door the other day were any indicator.

That left Jones, more often called Blink. It was generally accepted that the kid never slept, but Bobby had passed the TV room on his way here and had seen him channel surfing, just like always. So if it wasn't Wolverine, and wasn't Blink . . .

He peeked around the door to take a look and found his question answered. An auburn haired male was seated on one of the barstools at the counter, passed out face-first in an open textbook. Bobby recognized him, sort of. It was that guy from yesterday, the one who had given Marie a ride home. What was his name again? Oh, yeah. Remy.

Bobby ventured in to the kitchen, trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to disturb the sleeper. He hadn't taken two steps when Remy bolted upright, knocking over a poorly positioned energy drink in the process.

"Shit," Remy growled, picking up the now empty can. He gave it an unsavoury glance as he set it aside, turning his attention to a small stack of papers that looked to have once been covered in complex mathematical formulae as opposed to the citrus flavoured beverage that they were now swimming in. Bobby, wanting to be at least a little helpful, reached to the counter at his left and grabbed the roll of paper towel that hung on a dispenser there.  
"Here."

He lobbed the roll across the room, and Remy caught it without a word. Taking a sheet, he dabbed uselessly at the papers while saying something just beyond hearing. Bobby walked up beside him to take a closer look at the damage. Yep, those papers were definitely screwed.

"Doesn't look like you'll be able to save those," he observed. Remy turned to face him, mouth set firmly in to a frown.

"Y'think?"

Sarcasm was laced thickly through those two words (though, honestly, it sounded more like only one word, what with the way his accent slurred them together), and Bobby couldn't help but notice the air of 'back the hell off' that was being communicated not only by Remy's tone, but by his body language as well. He was only too happy to provide the personal space that Remy was looking for. A couple steps backward had Bobby leaning against the cupboard within which all the bowls were stored.

Convenient.

It was while retrieving one of said bowls and rummaging through the silverware drawer that he made another attempt at conversation.

"So," he began, drawing out the syllable as he selected a rather large tablespoon. "What are you doing here?"

"I _was _crammin' for a Calculus exam."

Again with the 'back the hell off'. Bobby was having a hard time blaming Remy for it though – the guy had just been woken up (an unpleasant experience in and of itself), and had managed to destroy all his notes in the process. He imagined he wouldn't have been very sociable or forgiving were he in the same situation.

Of course, Bobby reflected, Remy hadn't exactly been very polite the other day either, so maybe this had nothing to do with the notes and something to do with Bobby himself. That gave rise to an entirely different question though. What exactly did Remy have against him? He barely knew the guy. Yesterday was the first time he'd ever actually talked with him. What kind of a grudge could one hold against someone they didn't even know? Bobby sighed as he crossed the kitchen to the freezer where his panacea awaited. He had to dig behind a bag of peas and some frozen yogurt that had been labelled "Emma's – Eat and DIE" before he caught sight of the carton of ice cream that he had carefully hidden in the back. He reached for it with a victorious _ah-ha _and placed it down on the counter alongside his bowl and spoon. Sweet, sweet ice cream would soon be his.

He cracked open the container and set to serving himself, looking over towards Remy between the second and third scoop. The taller boy (for he was indeed taller) still appeared mutinous, daubing at the papers despite the fact that it was obviously far too late for such a rescue. Bobby tried yet again to initiate conversation.

"I never got the chance to thank you properly for helping Marie out the other day. You kind of ran off."

Remy's jaw clenched as he looked towards the soaked sheet of paper towel in his hand. He said nothing, just leaned over and deposited it in a garbage can that lay barely within his reach before getting a fresh one and continuing to dab at his notes. Bobby regarded him contemplatively as he picked at his late-night treat, which was rapidly letting him down. Was it the ice cream that was failing him though, or was it Remy's being so cold? Personally, he was hoping that the fault lay with the human as opposed to the blessed combination of cream and sugar that he was currently trying -- and failing, by the way -- to enjoy.

The question he had asked Marie yesterday was going through his head once more: what was this guy's problem? Remy wasn't exactly being polite, never mind forthcoming, and so Bobby tried to recall exactly what had happened the other day hoping that some clue might be found there. He had come out the front door, and Remy and Marie had been chatting as they walked towards the mansion. He had gone to greet Marie, and when he had tried to thank Remy for giving Marie a ride, the guy hadn't even let him finish speaking. He had said something about Kitty, and left in . . . well, a huff.

_Give my regards to Kitty, hmm?_

What the hell was that supposed to mean? What did Remy know about Kitty, and what did that have to do with anything?

Only one way to find out, Bobby reasoned.

"Can I ask you something?"

Again, Remy didn't bother to say anything. His attention appeared to be completely focused on his drowned notes. The way his forehead creased at the question, however, indicated that he wasn't ignoring Bobby completely.

"What was with that comment you made about Kitty yesterday?"

The reaction to this was instantaneous, and an image straight from a book or something: narrowed eyes, furrowed brow, sharp turn of the head and a stare that could pin you to the wall . . . the works.

"What do y'think it meant?"

"Would I be asking if I knew?"

"You tell me."

Bobby let out a frustrated breath.

"Did I piss you off in some previous life or something?"

These words elicited a smirk from Remy that was a tad caustic for Bobby's tastes. It didn't even reach any other part of his face – it was simply a harsh upturn of his mouth. His eyes were still angry slits, his forehead was still creased in irritation, and his nail-gun stare still remained.

"You're doin' a good job of it in this one, Drake. Don't think we need go worryin' about other ones yet."

Okay, now Bobby was getting annoyed.

"What the hell did I do?" he asked, voice a little louder and a lot more irked than he knew to be appropriate. "You don't like me, I get it, but I'd like to know _why_."

Remy reached over and threw out yet another used sheet of paper towel. And yet again, he took a fresh one and continued his futile effort to save his notes from a death that had already come.

"How's Kitty doin'?" he asked in a tone that might have actually been conversational were it not for the underlying accusation.

"Why are you so interested in Kitty?"

"Why are _you_?" Remy shot back, notes now forgotten. "The two of you have been lookin' damn cozy together lately."

Bobby's heart stopped. Surely he didn't . . . and yet . . . damn.

He clenched his spoon tightly and attempted to keep his voice even.

"That's a pretty wild accusation, Remy."  
"M' well aware."

"You also know that Marie's my girlfriend."

There was the briefest tightening of Remy's jaw.

"Having a girl hasn't stopped anyone before. Obviously isn't stoppin' you."

Bobby was silent. He looked down at his half-empty bowl of ice cream, now starting to melt.

How appropriate.

The truth of the matter was that he was kind of seeing Kitty. _Kind of._ She had shown up at Xavier's a bundle of nerves, scared of her powers, scared of being away from home . . . he was just being friendly. That was all.

Well, it had started that way anyhow.

_What is it now then?_

Bobby honestly didn't know. He pushed some of the goopy ice cream around a little, trying to think of what he should say. He was coming up blank though, which he knew was the wrong answer.

"You're an asshole and a cheat," Remy declared coolly, the very sentence itself daring Bobby to say something in retaliation. In truth though, Bobby had nothing _to_ say. How exactly did one respond to that sort of charge? Especially when it was . . . kind of true?

Remy shook his head, obviously disgusted. He left the room then, but not before picking up the pile of destroyed notes and depositing them in to the garbage can with a hollow _thunk_.


	3. Quality Time on the Roof

**TITLE: **I Get By

**SUMMARY: **After being rescued by an unlikely classmate, things get complicated.

**CHARACTERS: **Marie, Remy.

**RATING: **T

**WARNINGS: **None, for this chapter.

**DISCLAIMER: **I, LithiumAddict, a.k.a. Percy O'Leary, am not in any way shape or form connected to Marvel Comics, Fox Entertainment, or any other related group. I therefore do not own any of the characters represented here. This is fan-fiction, and a labour of love on my part and in no way an intention to undermine the previously mentioned organizations or their intellectual property.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **I'd always been fascinated by the function that the roof at Xavier's served in the comics, particularly in Remy and Rogue's relationship. If you're familiar with Uncanny X-Men #297 ("M'feelings f' y' are the very same reason I'm stayin' "), you know exactly what I'm talking about. I'm pretty sure almost everyone who writes in the Rogue/Remy fandom has written a 'rooftop' scene of some kind at some point. In my experience, they tend to be more on the fluffy, romantic side. There's nothing wrong with that, but considering the sheer amount of times that it's been done, it's growing difficult as a writer to do anything with it that hasn't been tried before. I decided to take that convention and attempt to do something fresh with it, and this chapter is what came of it. I'm rather pleased with it myself, actually. My hope is that this take on 'the rooftop' will please you too.

* * *

It was the sound of footsteps that woke Marie up. Loud ones.

She'd been having a particularly odd dream, the last vestiges of which were quickly fading from her consciousness. There had been something about tea-cups and trees, maybe. A tea party in the woods? And chocolate. There had been chocolate for sure.

Needless to say, a good dream.

She rolled out of bed, determined to find out who was behind this interruption of her sleep. If it was Jubilee sneaking in late again . . . she let out a low snarl. If it was the brat and her hoop earrings, this would be the sixth time in as many days that she'd pulled this stunt. Marie stepped in to her slippers before heading for her door, already writing a lecture in her head.

_Dammit Lee, do you have any idea what time it is?_

Once out in the hall though, her diatribe was forgotten. The figure storming down the hall wasn't Jubilee at all. It was Remy, who managed to disappear around a corner before Marie even had a chance to call out.

_What's he doing up at this hour?_

Determined to find out, she set to following him. It was the slamming of the third door to the left just as she came around the corner that indicated where he had ended up going. She approached the door with more than a little trepidation, assuming the slam to be the result of a bad mood. Her eventual knock was tentative.

"Remy?" she whispered, voice just loud enough to be heard on the other side of the door.

No response.

She knocked again, a little louder this time, and received the same silence in return.

Marie put her hand to the doorknob and found herself testing it. The door was unlocked, giving rise to something of a dilemma. Dare she go in?

The obvious answer was no. This was Remy's room, his space. She had no right to go in. Remy's apparent foul mood was yet another good reason to stay away. Why bother talking with him now? Best to give him his space and to talk to him after English tomorrow when he was likely to be in better spirits. Safer, too.

Apparently her hand was working separately from her brain this morning. She had opened the door even before she even realized she was doing so, revealing a completely empty room.

_So this is weird._

She took a couple steps in, blinking stupidly as she attempted to reconcile having seen Remy come in here with the definitely vacant room before her. Her eyes settled on the window, which happened to be wide open. Suddenly, it clicked.

This was the North Wing of the mansion, and Remy had escaped through his window to the roof. She crossed the room almost automatically, poking her head out the window and looking up. The ancient masonry would provide serviceable foot holds with which to climb to the roof itself.

_Should I?_ The question was hardly worth the asking, considering its answer came simultaneously.

_Why not? He did try to invite you up there before Bobby showed up._

Despite a nagging feeling that now was not the best time to be doing this, she kicked off her slippers and climbed out on to the windowsill. Once she'd steadied herself with a tight grasp on the top of the window frame, she shimmied to the far right of the sill and stepped out on to the nearest outcrop of brick in the building face. It was from there that she began her ascent.

_Left foot, right foot, one after the other._

The climb wasn't terribly difficult. The surface was uneven, virtually a ladder. She only had to climb up the equivalent of a storey too, which didn't take much effort – just a little balance and a fair amount of upper body strength. She silently thanked whatever force was listening for the time she had spent in the Danger Room before taking the Cure; time which had blessed her with both of those necessary attributes.

A few moments of careful climbing brought her to the point where she could actually reach for the roof itself. She tested her grip briefly and then hoisted herself up on to her elbows with a loud, rather unladylike grunt. Next she pulled herself to her belly, then to her knees. Satisfied that she had safely reached her destination and was in no danger of falling off, she rubbed her hands on her pajama pants to get rid of the moisture, gunk, and other assorted detritus that had collected there as a result of her little jaunt up the side of the mansion. She looked up from her thighs to scan the roof and found herself face to face with Remy.

"Hi," she said lamely. He was suitably unimpressed.

"Mind my askin' what you're doing here, Rogue?"

"Taking you up on your invitation."

She crawled forward, voice a touch more confident now as she took a seat to his left. Remy nodded stiffly, expression softening only enough for it to be noticeable. He was seated with legs crossed, fingers tapping out a halting, uneven rhythm on his knees. She observed this behavior quietly for a moment before opening her mouth again.

"So what's the problem?" she inquired, hugging her knees close to her chest.

"Problem?"

The answer came a beat too quickly (if there had even been a beat), which was enough to assure her that she was right in her guess. There was something wrong.

"You're obviously ticked off about something."

He looked away from her at this, and Marie was suddenly struck by the insufficiency of her pajamas for keeping out the night's chill.

She had her assumptions about what was bothering him, most of them derived from various things he had said the other day. More specifically, it was the comments he had made about Bobby in the car, and that rather cryptic _give my regards to Kitty _that had gotten the wheels in her head turning. Silence draped itself over the roof, and it appeared that Remy had no intention of lifting it, or to answer her question in any way. She exhaled quietly while rubbing her arms in a vain attempt to warm up.

"You gonna answer me or what?"

He looked back over towards her, face blank save for the slightest hint of a smile. There was a tension to it, however, that suggested it was less than genuine.

"For one," he said dryly, as though delivering the punch line of a joke, "I'm out of smokes. Never sharin' with Pete again."

Marie smiled, more for the fact that the smile on his face seemed to become a touch more real as he spoke than anything else.

"And for two?"

"For two," he echoed, his smile giving way to something more neutral. His eyes fell to his hands as he set to tapping out that ragged beat again. "How're you with hypotheticals?"

Marie shrugged.

"No worse than anyone else. Try me."

He nodded, and took a deep breath before trying.

"So there's this guy. He's got a great girlfriend who he don't deserve at all. She loves him to pieces, and yet he's spendin' a shitload of time bein' real friendly with some other girl, doing who the hell knows what behind the girlfriend's back."

He fell silent, eyes returning to her. She bit her lip, her own breathing growing shallow. He couldn't mean . . . he just couldn't. She closed her eyes, resting her forehead on her knees as she tried to gather herself together.

"Remy, if you're trying to say something to me, stop screwing around and just say it."

The silence that ensued only grew heavier once it was ended.

"Bobby's cheatin' on you."

Dammit.

Now why did he have to go and say that?

She pulled herself in to an even tighter ball, knees jamming hard against her collar bones. Marie hadn't been planning on facing that fact for a while yet.

_Liar, _she reprimanded herself._ You weren't ever planning on facing it. You're quite comfortable in denial and have absolutely no plans to leave._

As much as it hurt to admit it, that was the bitter truth about this whole debacle. She had guessed at Bobby's infidelity (such a pretty word for such an ugly thing) right from that afternoon in the Danger Room. And of _course _she had noticed how Bobby had held Kitty's hand at the Professor's funeral – she wasn't blind, wasn't stupid. Just . . . just a little deluded.

It took her a little time and a few deep breaths to find her tongue once more.

"What makes you think I didn't know?"

Remy blinked for a moment.

"You knew?"

She raised her head enough to nod.

"Y'knew, and you're still with him?" Astonishment had crept in to his tone, which only served to worsen how she felt. Her response was little more than a whisper as she forced herself to look at him.

"It's a long story."

He looked at her critically and it seemed as though he was about to call her on the blatant attempt at evasion, but concern quickly replaced all else.

"You're shivering."

Was she? A quick look at her arms confirmed it. Funny, she hadn't noticed. It was pretty cold though, especially for a late spring night.

"Let's get inside. You can tell me what the hell's goin' on in there."

Marie was in no mood to argue, and so she followed him as he made his way to the edge of the roof. He was inside his room before she had even gotten her footing on the side of the mansion, his head out the window and watching her as she made her way down. Once she had made it to the windowsill, he backed in about three feet. She crouched down, dropped in to the room, and stepped in to her slippers once more.  
"Take a seat somewhere. I'll get the lights."

Seeing as his desk chair was across the room and covered in books, the only viable place to sit down was on his bed. Awkward as that was, she sat down on it anyway as he flipped the switch and flooded the room with an artificial brightness. The two of them stood there, blinded for but a moment as their eyes adjusted to the newfound light. As she grew better able to see, that part of her that was both Marie and Logan at the same time set to cataloguing the room's contents.

The walls were covered in posters of scary-looking bands she'd never heard of. Probably more 'screamo' stuff, or whatever Remy had called it. Clothes, shoes, and books were scattered all over the floor in what she suspected to be one of those I-can't-clean-up-because-then-I-won't-know-where-anything-is sort of things. There were photographs pinned up over the twin bed she was sitting on too, probably of his family or something. One was slightly larger, making it stand out a little more than all the rest. In it, Remy was standing next to a guy that looked to be roughly the same age as him. His facial features were far softer than Remy's (who was all cheekbones and jaw line), and he had dark brown hair that proved an interesting contrast to Remy's auburn. He was built far differently from Remy as well – where Remy was gangly, this guy was sturdy. Both of them emanated a similar sort of confidence though, laughing at something or other. Behind them stood an older man who looked to be an older version of Remy's companion. The same soft features, clear eyes, and dark hair, albeit shot through with grey, marked them as being related in some way. Remy took a seat on the bed next to her, and as if he had heard what she was thinking, provided an answer to her thoughts.

"That's my brother, Henri," he said, gesturing towards the younger of the two people in the photograph with him.

"And that's your dad, right?" she asked, pointing towards the man behind them. Remy nodded.

"Jean-Luc LeBeau. Toughest bastard New Orleans' ever seen."

A smile found it's way to both of their faces, and Marie almost forgot about what had happened up on the roof.

Almost.

"You don't look anything like them. You take after your mother or something?"

She couldn't quite place what happened on his face as she finished her question. Was that grief? Anger? Frustration? None and/or all of the above? He leaned over the bed and picked a large, grey sweatshirt off the ground before speaking.

"I was adopted."

"I'm sorry."

"Nothin' to be sorry for. My family's good people."

He fingered the sweatshirt for a brief time as though weighing it in his hands before proffering it to Marie. She took it with a quiet thanks and pulled it over her head. It smelt of nicotine, though faintly. Laundry soap masquerading as mountain freshness covered it up almost completely. It was nice, really. Like home, back before everything had gotten all screwed up. Remy looked on quietly, giving her a moment before he spoke.

"You got a long story to tell me."

The reminder ripped her from her reverie and plunked her down firmly in reality once more. It occurred to her in passing that Bobby had a sweatshirt rather like this one, though his was white and almost threadbare at the elbows; she wondered just why that seemed to matter.

"It's not that important," she said weakly, knowing it was just another bullshit attempt to avoid saying anything at all.

"Not important?" Remy asked, stunned. "Your lovin' boyfriend is a piece of trash who's been seein' some other girl. I'm thinkin' the reason why you're still with him is damn important."

Marie hung her head, the smell of mountain freshness with undertones of cigarette no longer as pleasing as it had been a second ago.

_Deep breath, Marie. Calm down._

"It's not something I wanna talk about, okay?"

The animosity in that comment surprised even her. She hadn't meant for it to come out as acidic as it had. She offered a conciliatory look to Remy, hoping it contained enough of an apology to make it okay. There had been no reason for her to snap like that – all he'd done was care. But, Marie found herself justifying, she'd only really 'met' him the other day. She didn't have to go justifying herself to him, considering he was little more than a stranger. It was honestly nothing against him. He seemed like a nice enough guy, but regardless of what he appeared to think, she owed him no explanation; not about this, and especially not now.

Remy shifted a little ways away from her, nodding reluctantly.

"We all got parts of us we need t'keep to ourselves."

She recognized the words from the car yesterday. They sounded different now, almost as if he disliked their taste.

He pressed no further though, scooting backwards on the bed so his back was to the wall. Marie's attention was on her knees, so she only heard the long, slow exhale from beside her. She could guess at what that meant.

_I've worn out my welcome._

For that reason, she rose from the bed and started to leave. There was no point in sticking around now that her presence was no longer wanted.

She had reached the door when he called out to her.

"Hey, Rogue?"

She turned around to face him to be pleasantly surprised by a rather awkward almost-smile rather than the accusatory glare she had been expecting based on the turn their conversation had taken.

"Yeah?" she asked, tamping down the relief she felt at this unstated acceptance of her will on his part. He didn't appear to be holding anything against her.

_Thank you, _she whispered to that same force she'd thanked for the Danger Room minutes earlier.

Remy considered in silence, biting his lip as he searched for just the right words.

"If y'wanna hang out sometime . . . " he trailed off, looking almost helpless for a split-second. Marie smiled.

"I'd like that."

She meant it.


	4. Enter the Cannonball

**TITLE: **I Get By

**SUMMARY: **After being rescued by an unlikely classmate, things get complicated.

**CHARACTERS: **Sam, Marie, Remy, Doctor McCoy

**RATING: **T

**WARNINGS: **Language.

**DISCLAIMER: **I, LithiumAddict, a.k.a. Percy O'Leary, am not in any way shape or form connected to Marvel Comics, Fox Entertainment, or any other related group. I therefore do not own any of the characters represented here. This is fan-fiction, and a labour of love on my part and in no way an intention to undermine the previously mentioned organizations or their intellectual property.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **You know, I never really noticed Samuel Guthrie. Ever. His presence in Evo was minimal, his 616 counterpart isn't particularly fascinating or prominent, and he's never actually introduced in the movies save for a brief mention at the end of the X3 novelization (For those who don't know, both he and Remy are introduced in the epilogue as teenagers, hence the choice to make them teenagers here). I then stumbled across Uncanny X-Men #341. There was something about his characterization there that just _got_ me. I fell in love with it, and tried to mimic the endearing combination of funny, awkward, and just plain adorable in my own interpretation of him here.

* * *

Sam Guthrie was late.

Now, this was a first for him – he was, by habit, punctual to a fault. It was one of those things his mother had drilled into his head from the time he was old enough to understand its importance. As a result, the fact that he was running late today was bothering him to no end.

The fact that it was English he was late for was only making it worse. Doctor McCoy was more than patient when it came to seeking help for papers, but heaven help the poor soul that dared to enter his classroom after precisely 11:30:00.

Sam was, therefore, running through the mansion as fast as his legs could take him. If he were to activate his powers, he could make it to class within seconds and end up spared the embarrassment of being late. Such was the benefit of being able to cut through the air at speeds that rivaled military jets. Unfortunately, his control wasn't precise enough for him to avoid blasting through walls while doing so, which would lead to a whole other kind of embarrassment entirely. He was therefore currently running at a speed that brought him just to the threshold of his powers. Any faster and they'd be on (and mass chaos would likely ensue), any slower and there was no chance in hell that he would make it in time.

The home stretch was in sight - left at the next corner, down the corridor, and through the double doors at the end and he'd be in his seat with seconds to spare. What he didn't count on was coming around the corner and bowling right into someone.

The two of them hit the floor hard, books flying everywhere. Sam found himself on top of whomever it was he had run in to, and his mouth full of long, brown hair. It took him a half a second more to notice the white stripes and recognize who it was he had knocked down. It was the girl who sat to his right in English, and who had given him the grand tour when he first came to Xavier's.

"Marie?"

An affirmative moan had him swearing viciously at himself.

_Shitshitshitshit . . . _

"Sorry, sorry, sorry . . . " Sam babbled, spitting her hair out and rolling off of her. Gentlemanly instinct (another characteristic owed to his mother's tutelage) had him helping her up as soon as he had sprung to his feet.

"I am so, so sorry," he repeated emphatically, his imagination gleefully informing him what a terrible an impression he was making. "I was going to be late for English, and--"

Marie managed to cut him off before he had the chance to continue. She smiled, however weakly, while brushing herself off.

"It's okay. I was running late too."

Sam was down on the floor picking up books before she had even finished speaking.

"I really, really am sorry," he tried again, grabbing for a dog-eared copy of Hamlet that was barely within his reach. This only seemed to amuse her. She knelt down and started gathering books as well.

"I said it was okay. Don't worry about it."

Having only been a student at Xavier's for about a month now, Sam was still getting used to the environment and figuring out the social currents of this new world he had entered. Amara, a girl in his math class, had been instrumental in helping him get oriented. Part of this had been introductions to the majority of the students his age, as well as well as being informed of a few crucial tidbits of information and gossip that would help him maneuver the various cliques effectively. It had been unbelievably helpful, and as he reached for a black notebook by his feet he tried to remember what he had been told about Marie. Despite sitting next to her in English, he had never actually taken the opportunity to have a real conversation with her.

_Focus,_ he reminded himself. _Marie. What do I remember about Marie?_

A short dossier was quick in coming.

Marie, last name D'Ancanto. Went by the codename of Rogue while in uniform, but had taken the Cure a little while back and had at that point been removed from the roster. Permitted to stay at the Institute after a long heart-to-heart with Storm. Possessor of one overprotective boyfriend. Her power had been –

Wait a minute.

Boyfriend. Overprotective.

Shit.

Oh, this was not good at all. He had just barreled in to, knocked over, and _landed on top of _a girl with an uber-jealous significant other. Sam searched for a name, a face, a shred of anything that might help him figure out who this boyfriend was and thereby weigh the chances of him ending up getting his ass kicked, but nothing came. He mentally crossed his fingers and prayed that it wasn't that huge Russian guy in Art.

He opened his mouth once more with the intention of apologizing yet again, but was silenced by an eerily pointed look from Marie.

"Right," he said. "Shutting up."

She smiled at this while picking up a large and unwieldy anthology that had narrowly missed denting the wall.

"Your name's Sam, right?"

He nodded.

"Sam Guthrie." _Please don't sic your boyfriend on me,_ he added silently while shifting the books he was holding to the crook of his left arm so he could offer her his right hand. She took the extended appendage and shook it.

"Marie D'Ancanto."

Once they'd released each other's hands, a loud beep emitted from Sam's wrist. He pulled back the sleeve of his shirt to look at the time and sighed. 11:30:05.

"Well, we're officially late now."

Marie rose to her feet, books in hand.

"We should go then. Better late than never, right?"

Sam smiled grimly as he rose to his feet and joined her at the classroom door just a few feet away.

"Here goes nothing," he whispered while opening the door with considerable nervousness. As he did so, thirteen pairs of eyes turned to look at the two of them.

"Had we but world enough, and time . . ." came a voice from the front of the room. It belonged to Doctor McCoy, who was busy writing something up on the board.

"This coyness, lady, were no crime," finished Marie. "Andrew Marvell."

Doctor McCoy finished what he had been writing on the board with a small upward flourish before turning around.

"Very good, Miss D'Ancanto. You are correct. And for that, you and your equally tardy companion will not be faced with detention for your disregard of the clock."

"Thank you Doctor," the two of them intoned dully.

"Instead, you will be working as partners on the project I am just about to assign." He turned his attention to the entire class now. "Each partnership will be responsible for writing a missing scene from Hamlet. It will be minimum three pages in length, single-spaced and standard twelve point font. It may be composed in modern English, but bear in mind that bonus marks will be awarded for effective usage of iambic pentameter or blank verse . . ."

Sam and Marie headed for their seats, located in the middle of the room as Doctor McCoy continued with instructions. Marie reached hers first, turning back as she sat down to flash a brief smile and mouth a 'hello' to the guy behind her. Both the smile and the silent greeting were reciprocated by the auburn haired guy she'd given her own to. As she twisted to face the front once more, the greeting that passed between them and the fact that this guy inclined himself a little towards her as she did so brought Sam to the realization that this had to be the boyfriend. Distracted by his process of observation and insight, he nearly tripped over the boyfriend's backpack.

As he murmured something that sounded like sorry, he was awarded with a dark glare from red and black eyes that made it clear that a measurement had been taken, and that Sam had been found wanting. He fought the urge to shudder (there was a reason that God didn't use that particular colour scheme often, he reflected wryly – well, as wryly as one could given the circumstances) while setting his books down on the desk. What was the guy's name? He reached in to the library of his mind, looking for any tidbit that Amara had shared with him that might clue him in to a name, a history, anything. Robert? Reggie? Jeremy? He sighed as he came up dead blank.

Once safely seated, he occupied himself by thanking his lucky stars that he and Rogue had gotten off so easy. It was a little out of character for Doctor McCoy to be so lenient, but Sam wasn't one to complain when something worked out in his favour.

" . . . Mister Guthrie and Miss D'Ancanto's scene, however, will be performed by its authors on the due date. Period costuming is optional, though highly encouraged."

And there went that.

It was going to be a long, long day.

xXx

Class dragged on, and it seemed more an eternity than the actual two hours before Doctor McCoy glanced towards the clock and let out a regretful breath.

"It appears that our time here is at an end for the day."

Everyone in the classroom closed their books reflexively and started to rise from their chairs to go, the atmosphere in the room suddenly much more animated. The Doctor's reminder that their essays on the characterization of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were due next class was ignored as the cheerful banter of the students leaving drowned him out. Sam was among the first to rise and leave, noticing the strangely empty desk behind Marie as he left the room.

_Odd,_ Sam thought to himself as he walked out the door. _I didn't see him go._

Once out in the hall, he glanced around to see if Robert/Reggie/Jeremy was somewhere about. He saw nothing, but . . . no, it was probably just his imagination. He wasn't being watched.

He hoped.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder as other students streamed out around him, causing Sam to start.

"Leaving so soon, Guthrie?"

At the sound of the voice, he relaxed considerably. It was Marie.

"Hey."

He turned around to face her with a rather rueful look on his face as she took her hand back.

"So. Project," she said, holding her books tight against her chest. Sam nodded and glanced over his shoulder. Was someone there?

"Yeah. We should probably do something about that." He shifted his weight to the left, a little uncomfortable with the distraction in his voice.

"Are you free tonight? We can get together and try to work something out."

"Yeah," he could feel something boring in to his back. Eyes? A glare? What the hell . . . "Yeah, tonight's good."

"Seven o'clock in the library then?"

"Sure." Dammit, he was being watched. Marie's eyes narrowed in concern.

"You okay? You seem a little . . . "

She made a vague, flighty gesture with her free hand. Sam shook his head, reassuring words coming out of his mouth as a matter of habit. They came smoothly, easily – the result of having way too many younger siblings to look out for back home.

"I'm okay. Really. Just a little tired, that's all."

Marie looked as though she wasn't quite sure she was buying it, but nodded anyways.

"See you at seven then," she said, walking off with a wave and leaving Sam (possibly) alone as she headed for wherever she was going.

The hall was empty (maybe) save for Sam now, as all the other students had since brushed by and scurried off to lunch. That sensation of being watched intently was still there, a psychological itch that was steadily growing worse. Sam didn't like it.

"You can come out now," he said to the hall, fully conscious of how stupid he'd look to any passers by. Talking to an empty corridor was not usually indicative of good mental health.

An agonizing fifteen seconds passed. Sam was about ready to chalk it up to good old fashioned paranoia and be done with it, and go back to his room in order to get started on that biology project he should have had done yesterday. He was taking the first few steps in that particular direction when someone stepped out of nowhere and in to his way.

Being just Sam's luck, it happened to be Rogue's boyfriend. Backpack slung over his right shoulder, eyebrow hiked up, and mouth drawn in a perfectly straight line, he was the dictionary definition of cool, calm, disaffection.

"Hi," he said, not knowing exactly what else one was supposed to say in this sort of situation. Truth be told, he didn't even really know what the situation was in the first place.

"Hello," Robert/Reggie/Jeremy replied. There was ice in his tone, Sam could hear it. And that whole measured and found wanting look? Still there.

The two of them stood staring each other down for a tiny eternity when all of a sudden, Sam's mouth began moving without permission.

"Look, about Marie. I'm not trying to steal your girlfriend or anything. It was just…"

And where the hell had that come from? Why the crap would Marie's boyfriend suspect him of trying to steal her away?

It was those eyes, he decided. Too creepy for their own good, making him uncomfortable and having him say strange things. Yeah. That was it.

Robert/Reggie/Jeremy looked shocked and opened his mouth to speak, but it snapped shut before ever uttering a word. His face was pensive now, and Sam had the distinct sensation of being measured again.

"Good t'know."

For a moment, Robert/Reggie/Jeremy looked as though he wanted to say something further, but settled for something that might have passed for a smile if you squinted right as he left the hallway for who knew where. To go find Marie, maybe?

Sam leaned back against the wall, letting out a weak laugh once Robert/Reggie/Jeremy disappeared.

Bullet officially dodged.


	5. Numbers and Feelings

**TITLE: **I Get By

**SUMMARY: **After being rescued by an unlikely classmate, things get complicated.

**CHARACTERS: **Remy, Marie

**RATING: **T

**WARNINGS: **Language.

**DISCLAIMER: **I, LithiumAddict, a.k.a. Percy O'Leary, am not in any way shape or form connected to Marvel Comics, Fox Entertainment, or any other related group. I therefore do not own any of the characters represented here. This is fan-fiction, and a labour of love on my part and in no way an intention to undermine the previously mentioned organizations or their intellectual property.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **Even once this story progressed beyond a one-shot, I never intended it to be a truly cohesive narrative. The plan was to do a character study of a movieverse Remy, looking at him through the eyes of other characters. I specifically wanted to avoid doing a chapter from his perspective for this very reason. The fact that I did in the end is an example of you guys swaying the direction of this story. I believe it was Ishandahalf specifically that expressed a desire to get inside Remy's head. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that his viewpoint would be an interesting one to play with. This chapter is the first from his perspective, and serves as (what I think of as being) an interesting parallel to the first chapter. Writing through his point of view was a great experience, and I quickly came to like his voice . . . not to mention hinting at a history drawn from the comics that's going to end up being explored more once we get a little further down the road.

* * *

Remy's textbook sat open on his lap, the current problem staring at him with a lack of enthusiasm only matched by his own current expression.

_If y-3csc(4x), _it asked, _then what does y'(0) equal?_

After scribbling an intricate formula across the pages of a notebook to his left, a little deductive reasoning and more scribbling reduced the large mass of numbers and letters to a slightly smaller mass that yielded an answer.

"It's undefined," he muttered, making a note of this fact right next to the illegible scrawl that was his work. The textbook didn't seem to care.

He would normally have been exhibiting a good deal more enthusiasm in this particular situation – he liked calculus. There was something intensely satisfying about wrestling with a sequence of numbers and forcing them to give up whatever it was they were hiding.

No, wrestling was the wrong word. Wrestling suggested sweat, spandex, and faces getting smashed in to smelly gym mats. You didn't wrestle numbers. You finessed them. With a little skill, delicacy, and the right formulas, you coaxed their secrets from them and laid them bare for the world to see before the problem in question knew what hit it. It was a process he _enjoyed._

Today, however, Remy was bitter. He would have been the first to admit how immature and petty it was, but it was there nonetheless, which explained why he was sitting on his bed with his schoolwork and a petulant frown on his face that would have done his cousin Emil proud.

The best part of this whole thing was that it wasn't even the numbers that were to blame. It had been an innocent trip to the school's library in order to return a book on religious icons of the fifteenth century he'd needed for an Art History paper. He hadn't intended to run in to Bobby and Kitty there, and he certainly hadn't intended to feel so hostile. For all he knew, the two of them were just studying and happened to be doing so together.

Unlikely, but possible.

The problem lay in the fact that it was difficult for him to separate Bobby and Kitty being within ten feet of each other and Bobby being in the act of cheating. It followed that seeing the two of them together equated to Bobby being a scumbag, and Kitty as scumbag by association.

And the worst part? Rogue _knew _about all of this. She _knew _and was doing nothing about it. On top of that he had no clue why, which was only serving to confuse and irritate him further.

He was, as a result of all this, having a crappy afternoon. This in turn explained his irritation with the numbers in front of him.

He knew rationally that he was being stupid – he didn't know the whole story, it wasn't his place to judge, blah, blah, _blah_ – but where he came from, you didn't just stand by when shit like that went down. People just didn't _do _stupid things like that, and if they did, you put them in their place.

Of course, where he came from was a bit of an anomaly. The workings of the LeBeau family were unique to say the least, but damn if he didn't wish those rules applied here.

_Fricking numbers,_ he growled, lapsing in to barely intelligible French in order to insult the textbook that he knew couldn't hear him. It wasn't nearly as satisfying as, say, insulting Bobby, but at this point he would take what he could get. _Damn, stupid, fricking, sonovabitch numbers._

These mutinous thoughts were cut off at their source by a knock at the door that did nothing for his mood. All he was hearing was a new target for his aggravation.

"What?" he asked, bristling. The door was pushed open in response to allow a familiar face to peek through. Brown hair, white streaks, and a timid half-smile . . . what was Rogue doing here?

"Is this a bad time?" she asked, appearing sorry for having intruded.

"No, no. Come in." These words were spoken as he closed both his text and his notebook, shoving them off to the side in what was meant to be a gesture of goodwill, an indicator of his attention being shifted from the numbers to her. The fact that it was allowing him to take his mind off of math, even for a little while, was just a perk.

Rogue entered the room, a familiar piece of clothing in hand – the grey sweatshirt he'd loaned her the other night.

"This is yours." She tossed it across the room, and Remy made the catch easily. "Thanks for letting me borrow it."

He shrugged. She had been shivering, the shirt had been on hand. It had been the right thing to do. That, and he'd wanted to do it.

"Y'welcome."

An unconscious part of his mind (though maybe more conscious that he would readily admit, considering he was noticing it) noted that underneath the smell of stale cigarettes and laundry detergent that seemed to permeate all his clothing was something that hadn't been there before. He couldn't peg what it was; there was only the niggling awareness that something else was there. Something . . . softer? He looked up from the sweatshirt in his hands to Rogue.

"You just stop by t'drop this off?" he inquired, placing it over his books so he wouldn't have to look at them. If he couldn't see them, they didn't exist, and he could therefore ignore them without guilt.

"No, there's something else. I . . . I kind of need a favour."

The suppression of a grimace on his part occurred here. Could she have picked words that were any more loaded? He doubted it. The way 'favour' was translating in his head . . .

_Stop that, _he reprimanded himself. _You're the guy in her English class who gave her a lift one day. Maybe a friend. __**Maybe.**__ She's got a boyfriend_ (he wanted to sneer at that, but it was true and he couldn't dismiss it),_ she barely knows you, and she definitely isn't thinking about you that way even though you'd like her to be. So stop it. _

"What d'you need?"

Relief smoothed her face as she took a couple more steps in to his room.

"The garage called. My car's fixed, and I need a ride out there."

He nodded, something swelling in his chest. Hope? She'd come to him specifically over everyone else. Not Bobby, not that Sam guy, _him_. Yes, he realized. That was definitely hope.

"Yeah. Sure. I can drive y'out there."

It would mean skipping out on Art History, but he found himself failing to care. The appreciative smile she flashed him made any missed work completely worth it.

Remy rose off his bed and stepped over the mass amounts of clutter that stood between him and his dresser, where he gathered together the necessary provisions for the journey: his wallet, his car keys, and the pair of sunglasses that he never left home without. As understanding as his family had been, and as accepting as everyone at Xavier's was, the rest of the world was nowhere near as accommodating when it came to red and black eyes.

The journey to the car was rather unremarkable. They talked English; a nice, safe, neutral subject, though really just coming down to words spoken just to fill up the space. Remy learned that Rogue and Sam's presentation was coming along slowly but surely, and that she was excited about picking out the costumes. They were going to go to a second hand store tomorrow to start putting them together. He told Rogue about how he was working with Tessa, who was a bit of a know it all. Well, bit was an understatement. Besides being a telepath, the girl had a near perfect memory, and could recount lectures word for word. However useful that talent sounded, it got irritating very, very quickly.

By the time they piled in to his car, the two of them were a little more at ease. Once he'd turned the key in the ignition and turned down the radio – it had been cranked due to the late night snack run he had made with the Beaubiers the other day – he shifted in to reverse and pulled out of his parking spot.

"This still _Circonférence d'un Carré?_" Rogue asked, and he smiled. Her pronunciation had improved since last time, almost as though she'd practiced it. Remy shook his head before shifting in to forward and driving out to the main highway.

"Nope. These guys are _Agoraphobie. _Less screaming, more melody."

He watched her carefully as she mulled this over.

"You like 'em? I can burn you a copy."

That is, if he could find some blank CDs anywhere in the black hole of his room to begin with. One step at a time though. Rogue gave a small frown that looked disapproving.

"Burning CDS? Isn't that pretty much stealing?"

It took some serious self-control for Remy's grip not to visibly tighten on the steering wheel. She wanted to talk about _theft. _Of all the possible topics of conversation out there, that was what she hit on. He pursed his lips, trying to figure out just how to approach this. No potential response seemed to be the right thing to say. Anything he was coming up with would either raise outright suspicion, or lead to more questions which would lead to outright suspicion anyway.

He would try distraction. Distraction was always good.

"How're you an' Bobby?" The instant the words exited his mouth, he knew they were the wrong thing to say. Truth be told, he'd known they were the wrong thing to say before he'd even opened his trap. Why he'd even directed the conversation down this particular path escaped him – he did NOT want to hear the girl he'd gone and gotten himself obsessed with talk about how she and her boyfriend were getting along.

It was also an absolutely piss poor attempt at distraction to boot. Some plan that had been.

_You're a glutton for punishment Remy,_ his father had always said. At this particular point in time, he was having a hard time disagreeing.

Remy risked a quick glance to the passenger seat in order to see how Rogue had taken his question. With luck, she'd have interpreted it as friendly concern and everything would be okay. Her expression was neutral, which he chalked up as a victory of sorts. A neutral expression meant he wasn't getting yelled at. A neutral expression meant she didn't hate him.

_Yet, _he amended silently. _She doesn't hate me yet. _He tacked on a _hopefully_ to that train of thought for good measure.

She gave a shrug, which he guessed was an attempt to answer his question without really answering. Unfortunately, he was reading quite a bit in this otherwise innocuous gesture – a bad habit of his.

A shrug meant avoidance and discomfort. It said _this bothers me, I don't want to talk about it._ The fact that she followed this up by crossing her arms over her stomach, hands clasping her elbows said _leave it alone. _Her eyes looking down towards her lap accented this with a quiet _please. _

"You're awfully interested in him, aren't you?"

Remy didn't think he'd ever heard her voice that soft.

_I'm awfully interested in why you insist on sticking with him even though he's doing you wrong._

He didn't speak his thoughts aloud though, wising up enough to choose something a little more appropriate to the situation.

"Sorry. I got a big mouth. Shouldn't be talkin' like that." He managed to stop just short of launching in to a repetition of the short litany he'd been developed with regards to Rogue. _It's your story, I'm sorry, it's your choice, I'm sorry, we all have parts of us we need to keep to ourselves, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought this up. I'm sorry. _

"It's okay."

Her tone indicated the complete opposite, as did her body language. It was not okay. Not by a long shot.

The rest of the ride passed in a chilled silence, Rogue sitting there with arms crossed and refusing to say anything, and Remy kicking himself repeatedly for being stupid and idiotic and _dammit_ he shouldn't have brought up Bobby. He would almost have preferred her screaming at him or hitting him; anything but this quiet. They finally reached the garage about ten or fifteen minutes later, and as he pulled up to the front door, Remy took a deep breath.

"Need company in there?" he asked, hoping to high hell the words weren't coming across as desperate as he imagined they were. She shook her head while swinging her legs out the car door and standing up.

"I'll be fine." The words were slightly frosted, which he had expected. He had been a prying jerk, and she owed him nothing whatsoever, but he'd been hoping that there might have been a possibility that maybe she wouldn't leave this car angry. Rogue made to shut the door behind her, but paused.

"Thanks for the ride though – I owe you one."

_I owe you one._ That's exactly what Bobby had said to him on the front lawn that afternoon he'd brought Rogue home from this very place. Unsurprisingly, it meant more coming from her, especially since coupled with a distant upward curve of her mouth that walked the line between disappointment and a smile. Whatever it was, it seemed to take the bite out of her words and suddenly, there was that hope again.

_I'm gonna hold you to that, _he wanted to say. All he managed was a nod as her ambiguous expression became a definite smile while she closed the door before walking away.

Remy let out a sigh that lay somewhere at the crossroads of frustration and pain as he watched her cross the parking lot and enter the garage. He should have said something. Anything. And now she was gone.

_What the hell is wrong with you? _he demanded angrily of himself. He got no reply, which didn't help matters at all.

It wasn't as though there hadn't been other girls in his life. There _had_ been. But in all those cases, he knew why he felt the way he did about them. There were certain things about them that he could specifically point to and say that he was drawn to, that he appreciated.

But what about Rogue? What reason did he have for all but stalking her? He couldn't say, and he was willing to bet it was going to drive him crazy before he came up with an answer that made any sort of sense.

And therein lay the rub.

Remy liked things that made sense, things he could understand. That's why he took calculus. He _got _it. There was a problem and there was an answer, and even if you didn't like what the numbers had to say, you at least knew what they were about. You could understand them. Most importantly, you could get to a damn answer.

But Rogue wasn't a math problem.

She made no sense to him outside the fact that he enjoyed being around her, and that to see her upset made him want to hurt things. There was no why, no rhyme or reason. No logic. No numbers to finesse. Just a flesh and blood girl and a host of emotions he was grasping less and less the more he tried to order them.

He slammed his head back against the headrest, swallowing a streak of profanity that might actually have been cathartic to release. It figured that despite the generous female population of Xavier's, he'd gone and gotten himself hung up on one who was not only taken, but taken by an _ass._ And as for the icing on this proverbial cake (because what cake, proverbial or not, was complete without icing?), she not only defended said ass, but seemed to have no interest in Remy outside of the fact that he had a car and was willing to lend her a hand when she needed it. And who he couldn't seem to talk to without bringing up issues that he had no place talking about.

"Smooth LeBeau," he muttered."Real smooth."

Nicotine was in order.

Remy reached across the car for the glove compartment and pulled out the package of cigarettes that waited there. After withdrawing one, he tossed the packaged to the side, the cardboard container landing right where Rogue had been sitting just moments before. Was it funny or just plain dumb that his new passenger made more sense to him than the previous one? He would have laughed at the absurdity of the question, were he not occupied in putting the cigarette to his lips and pressing down hard at the end of it with the tip of his index finger.

_Come on,_ he willed the molecules. _Come ON._

Rising to the command, a magenta glow enveloped the cigarette as it lit up and a small trail of smoke began to rise from the end. Satisfied, he set to fiddling with the CD player. A sharp crank of one particular knob brought his music screaming back to life as loud as the small system could possibly handle. His satisfaction only increased as his eardrums began to throb and his chest began to rumble with the bass.

His whole car trembling now, he pulled back out on to the highway with every intent of going well over the speed limit. With a little luck, maybe he could outrun his frustration for a little while.


	6. Guiding Stars

**TITLE: **I Get By

**SUMMARY: **After being rescued by an unlikely classmate, things get complicated.

**CHARACTERS: **Remy, Jean-Paul, Jeanne-Marie

**RATING: **T

**WARNINGS: **None, for this chapter.

**DISCLAIMER: **I, LithiumAddict, a.k.a. Percy O'Leary, am not in any way shape or form connected to Marvel Comics, Fox Entertainment, or any other related group. I therefore do not own any of the characters represented here. This is fan-fiction, and a labour of love on my part and in no way an intention to undermine the previously mentioned organizations or their intellectual property.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **My first introduction to the Beaubier twins was through the Supernovas arc of Adjectiveless X-Men. There's a few pages in those issues where I could have sworn that the two of them looked more like sixteen year olds as opposed to the adults they're supposed to be. With that particular image in mind (and loads of experience with siblings as background), I tackled the twins. It should really be illegal to have that much fun writing. Seriously.

* * *

Eighteen years had taught Jean-Paul Beaubier many things. How to ski, how to fly, and how to hold his alcohol were among the more significant of these. It had taken him a while, but he eventually discovered that the same principle served for all three of them – do it enough times and you'll eventually figure it out.

This meant that in his eighteen years of life, he'd thrown himself down numerous snow-covered hills, off more than a few buildings, and had spent a goodly amount of morning-afters bent over a toilet being laughed at by his twin sister.

As one might imagine, some of these experiences were more pleasant than others.

What these eighteen years had failed to show him was how to wrestle a television remote from said twin sister. _Which is a real pity_, he reflected, _since that would really come in handy right about now._

"This is ridiculous," he announced, trying to peel her fingers off the remote one by one, a plan that while sound in theory was failing in practice. The girl had a grip like iron, and no intention of letting go. This was fine with Jean-Paul, as he had no such designs either. The precious piece of plastic would be his.

"I agree," his sister replied. "Especially since we both know that the minute I break out the finger nails, this fight is over."

Jean-Paul opened his mouth to call her bluff – she had no such finger nails to speak of due to the fact she chewed them quite regularly – but was promptly interrupted.

"I'm thinkin' you underestimate the boy, Jeanne-Marie."

The twins whipped around to the door of the TV room to see Remy standing there looking coolly detached, as per usual. Jean-Paul had, for a time, seriously questioned whether the boy was capable of any facial expression outside of disaffection. After some heated discussion on that very topic, he and Jeanne-Marie had determined that it probably wasn't that he was incapable of them so much as he just chose to maintain that icy façade for the sheer hell of it. It was either that, or because girls supposedly ate up the aloof loner act; and let the record show that the two of them had things to say about _that_.

Having been scooped up in the same recruitment drive (how that had worked out, Jean-Paul had no idea – Louisiana and Quebec weren't exactly close), the three of them had bonded over their shared ability to speak bastardized forms of French. While Remy's dialect was tainted with the Yat so common where he was from, Jean-Paul and Jeanne-Marie were experts in the English-French hybrid of Franglais. Somehow they had ended up finding each other, and made a point of sticking together from then on. It was nice to hear, well, _something_ like French being spoken so far away from home.

"Your defence of my honour is touching, Remy."

His apathy gave way to faint amusement as he approached the couch. With a sharp jerk, he pulled the remote from both pairs of hands, and neatly handed it off to a smiling Jeanne-Marie.

"I knew there was a reason I liked you. Thanks."

Jean-Paul was less amused. Therefore, he glowered.

"Yes. Thank you Remy. Now I don't get to watch my show."

Remy didn't even reply, as Jeanne-Marie interrupted with a crow of victory.

"Such is life, little brother."

It just wasn't _right _for Jeanne-Marie to be so gleeful. The messing of his hair was also uncalled for, not to mention condescending. His glower grew more pronounced as he brushed her hand away.

"You're going to hold those few minutes against me until the day I die, aren't you?"

Jeanne-Marie just began humming something that sounded suspiciously like _We are the Champions _while flipping through the channels in search of whatever soap opera she was looking for, and Jean-Paul decided it would be best to ignore her for now. Besides, giving Remy a piece of his mind was actually sounding kind of appealing. He turned towards Remy with the intent to do so, but ended up regarding him with suspicion instead. There was a tautness to his face that was unfamiliar, not to mention unnerving. He ended up asking the question that was on his mind before he had a chance to filter it through whatever cortex separated good ideas from the bad ones.

"Remy? Everything alright?"

The tightness grew before melting away in to a hollow smile.

"Why wouldn't it be?"

And with that, Jean-Paul's vague doubt was blown in to all out suspicion. He now had a moral imperative to press on, for the satisfaction of his own curiosity and for the good of . . . the world? Humankind? Mutantkind? Something? Regardless of reason, he proceeded to press.

"Because roughly eight hours ago your biggest issue was whether you ought to go with a half-pound of gummy worms or a six pack of Liquid Energy--"

"I still think you should have gone with the gummy worms," Jeanne-Marie butted in, not even bothering to tear her eyes away from the television. That might have had something to do with the pretty piece of manflesh on the screen, but Jean-Paul wasn't hazarding any bets.

"—and now you look like someone's gone and kicked your puppy. What's going on?"

The manflesh now off camera due to a scene change, Jeanne-Marie finally leaned her head back over the top of the couch to look directly up at Remy. She was employing a surprisingly intimidating stare given the position she was in, her neck arched with the curve of the couch's shape.

"And don't try any of that 'nothing' crap. You reek of cigarettes, and you only smoke when something's getting to you. What is it?"

"This whole two-on-one thing isn't fair. Y'both know that, right?"

"You have officially flunked out of Avoidance 101. Answer the question."

Remy leaned over the couch in order to make his feigned absorption in whatever soap opera Jeanne-Marie was watching (and his ignorance of what Jean-Paul had just said) more authentic. Big mistake. Jean-Paul nudged his sister, receiving a barely-there nod in reply. In perfect synchronicity, they each grabbed an arm and yanked Remy over the back of the couch and on to the ground at their feet.

"What the hell was that for?" Remy growled, pulling himself up off the floor and on to the couch between the two of them, looking for all the world like a bad-tempered twelve year old who had just been told that he couldn't have any ice cream because it would spoil his dinner.

"Idiocy," the twins replied in unison. The inherent creepy-factor of them saying the same thing at the same time was quickly acknowledged with an uncomfortable quiet and the exchange of awkward what-the-crap looks between the two of them. That sort of occurrence was what the two of them referred to as a 'twin thing', only happening on occasion, but disturbing them a little each and every time.

"Now," Jean-Paul continued, the moment over and gone as he returned his focus to the target at hand. "Are you going to spill, or are we going to have to resort to torture here?"

Jeanne-Marie put on her best Bambi eyes.

"Can we use the pliers?"

"But of course."

"And the spikes? Oh, please say we can use the spikes."

Her speech had grown theatrical by this point, distorted by an over exaggeration that brought a smile to Jean-Paul's face. He twisted the smile in to one of simpering indulgence, continuing the pantomime.

"I wouldn't have it any other way, sister dear."

"You two have serious issues t'work out," Remy muttered, sinking down further into the couch. Jean-Paul barely reigned in a snicker.

"It's looking like we're not the only ones."

"Have y'considered that maybe, just maybe, I don't wanna talk about it for a reason?"

"Because you don't love us?" tried Jeanne-Marie.

Jean-Paul's eyes narrowed as he watched Remy closely. Was the boy _pouting_? Saints alive, he was.

"How am I supposed t'know you guys aren't gonna go telling everyone?"

"And I thought I was a drama queen," Jean-Paul observed airily after a small snort. He waited for the inevitable response from Jeanne-Marie, but she just poked Remy's shoulder in order to get his attention. He only then realized how thankful she was he hadn't taken the bait.

"Trust necessitates revelation," she pointed out. "If you don't go out on a limb, if you're not willing to take a risk, trust can't be built in the first place, let alone maintained."

Jean-Paul gave a slow clap, his own words doused in a mild sort of mockery.

"Impressive. You read that in a book somewhere?"

"This month's Cosmo," she deadpanned before fixing her stare back on Remy. "Now talk."

Remy didn't comment, choosing to fiddle with the sunglasses in his hand instead. Jean-Paul proceeded to snatch the sunglasses out of his grasp, much as the remote control had been taken from his hands moments earlier. It was oddly satisfying, and he was sure that he'd have enjoyed it more were there not bigger machinations at work.

"What's going on, Remy?" he demanded, holding the sunglasses just beyond the reach of their clearly annoyed owner.

"Give 'em back."

"Not until you talk to us."

Jeanne-Marie turned the TV off and angled herself towards the victim of their interrogation, grabbing his wrist just in time to prevent him from assaulting Jean-Paul, for which he was most grateful.

"Speak, boy," Jeanne-Marie instructed. "What's going on?"

The sigh that escaped Remy's lips at this point was one of defeat. His entire posture began to sag, indicating enough compliance to satisfy Jeanne-Marie. She released his wrist, Jean-Paul handed back the sunglasses, and they waited in eager anticipation for the story they were about to hear.

"There's a girl," he finally began, after turning the sunglasses over and over in his hands for a good thirty seconds. Jean-Paul resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Well, isn't that specific."

"Do you want to hear this or not?"

Jeanne-Marie gave a permissive flit of her hand that brought to mind the royal wave.

"Proceed."

Remy sighed, rubbing at his forehead with the palm of his hand. The guy wasn't much of a talker at the best of times, Jean-Paul reflected; this must have been like pulling teeth for him. He was almost beginning to feel sorry for his friend, but wasn't given the chance due to a particularly quick continuation of the story.

"It's Rogue."

"You mean Marie?" Jeanne-Marie looked towards Jean-Paul as she spoke. "She's the one in your Chemistry class, right?"

Jean-Paul nodded, recognizing the name. Marie was the girl in Sean and Nate's group in chemistry, and the three of them had almost blown up the entire lab during their last lab. Sean had blamed Nate, Nate had blamed Sean, and Marie had ended up glaring mutinously at both of them as she swept up all the broken glass as they argued about who the hell was responsible for the mess. Needless to say, they weren't doing particularly well in that class. Jean-Paul silently thanked God one more time for fire extinguishers.

"Yeah. The little brunette thing. Iceman's girl."

Jean-Paul couldn't be sure, but he was almost certain that Remy winced at his last sentence. Interesting.

"D'you have to refer to her like that?"

"_Anyhow_," Jeanne-Marie interjected, shooting a death glare her brother's way. He was familiar with that specific glare; that particular angle of her head, the quirk of her left eye . . . yep, that was the 'you're an idiot, be quiet before I hurt you' glare. "What about Marie?"

There were another few moments of quiet as Remy either searched for the right words, or screwed up the courage to actually say them.

There was also the chance that it was neither of these. Perhaps Remy was simply deciding if he was going to share anything at all.

After looking up to the ceiling as if in search of divine guidance, he spoke. It was slow, peppered with pauses as he wove the narrative together, but he began to explain.

His story took them back to their first arrival at Xavier's, to when the three of them and about five other new students had walked through the front doors with wide eyes and very little idea of what to expect from this school of which they'd only seen promotional material. They had been taken on a tour of the school by some guy who had introduced himself as Bobby Drake, codename Iceman – the perfect All-American boy, complete with straight teeth and wide smile.

Jean-Paul couldn't help but bristle a little at the tension in this description.

A girl had walked by while they were paused outside the library. She'd been of average build, dark hair with white stripes. Remy claimed that this hadn't really caught his attention. There were stranger folk about than her: kids with reptilian skin, kids with blue tongues, the works. A little bit of white hair hadn't really stood out. This girl would have passed unnoticed save for when she slid by Drake, clasping his hand for a split second as she walked on by. They had traded a significant glance that was there and gone as she let go, and their tour guide had gone on as though nothing had happened.

Remy tried to explain why it was this simple gesture had struck him so, but he didn't seem able to articulate it. Flustered after a few halting attempts, he moved on.

Intrigued without knowing why or how or anything, Remy had slipped away from the group as it moved on.

("So _that's _what happened. I wondered where you'd disappeared to." Jeanne-Marie laughed. She was silenced quickly by scowls from both boys.)

Once making his break from the rest of the group, he slipped down the side hall that the girl had gone down after exchanging that significant gesture with the Drake kid. She hadn't gotten far, and he found himself following her. Damned if he knew why, but he had.

She'd cut a fairly clear path through the school, heading for what he knew to be the dormitory – Drake had already led them through there – and stopped a few times along the way to talk to people she passed. Through this he learned a few things. Her name was Marie (or Rogue, depending on who she talked to), she was a few years gone from the South (her accent gave her away, but it was obvious the North had softened it away somewhat), and the Drake guy was her boyfriend. It was while following her that he'd also discovered the Iceman's true colours. After moving on and safely around the corner after a short chat with two girls who had been identified as Rhane and Jubilee, the truth had come out.

"_You know, I kinda feel sorry for her." _

"_What the hell are you talking about?"_

"_You haven't heard? Bobby and Kitty are an item."_

"_I thought--"_

"_So did I."_

"_Well that's shitty."_

"_You can say that again. And she's such a nice girl too."_

"_Yeah. And here I was thinking that Kitty was all about Peter."_

"_Get real, Jubes. The day Pete looks up from his sketchbook and notices that there's actually females in this school . . ."_

As Jubilee and Rhane headed off to wherever they were destined, Remy had suddenly felt indignant on Rogue's behalf. He blamed that shortest of palm-to-palm connections that she and Bobby had shared back by the library. That gesture had _meant_ something, and that Bobby might betray that meaning made him sick.

Rogue deserved better.

He decided to investigate the rumour himself. This involved following Rogue more, and in doing so learning more about who she was. A weakness for cookies, slim paperback novels, and --

("You know what your problem is?" Jean-Paul interrupted here. "You have a seriously misplaced Knight-In-Shining-Armour complex."

"Not to mention twisted," Jeanne-Marie threw in. "In the real world, we call that stalking."

"Y'wanna hear this or not?")

This also involved taking a closer look at Kitty and Bobby to ascertain the truth. It didn't take long to find out that Jubilee had been right. They weren't exactly discreet. Their supposedly 'stolen moments' were blatantly obvious to anyone who cared to look, and it seemed that everyone except Rogue was aware of what was going on.

("_I_ didn't know."

"Quiet, Jean-Paul."

"I didn't! That blows his whole 'everyone knows it' theory out of the water."

"Will you let him finish the story?")

For some reason, he kept coming back to that moment Rogue had passed by Bobby and grasped at his hand. There was more than just affection in that gesture. There was _trust_, he said, and Drake had broken it.

And so his resentment on Rogue's behalf had continued to grow. Over time though, Remy's focus changed though as he continued to get to know her. Through listening to her speak in English class, through simply observing her in passing, he came to realize that there was something there that he couldn't quite name. Respect, maybe? Admiration?

He told the twins of his confusion, of his frustration. Of how when the phone had rung that day and she had been on the other end of the line in need of help, he jumped at the opportunity. He talked of their conversation on the roof, of how she knew the whole story and yet did nothing, and of how stupid he had been when he took her back to the garage to get her car earlier. Of how he had no idea what was going on, what he was supposed to do, why he was reacting this way, why he wanted to throttle himself just as badly as he wanted to throttle Drake.

"So now you know," Remy said, effectively plunking down a 'the end' to his story. He looked at both of the twins expectantly as though waiting for a response of some kind, and it was only then that Jean-Paul noted that the entire tale and its accompanying commentary had been delivered in French.

He could only frown. The story made sense, to be sure, but it didn't make _sense._ Maybe he was hearing it wrong – he decided it was best to check.

"So let me see if I've got this straight. Boy meets girl. Girl is taken by jerk. Boy stalks girl in hopes of winning her undying love. Have I got it?"

"My god," Jeanne-Marie realized. "It's like every bad romance novel I've ever read is playing out before my eyes."

"Y'r guys' support means the world." Remy muttered, his own special brand of sarcasm tainting what might otherwise have been taken for genuine sentiment.

He rose to leave, but was quickly stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder courtesy of Jeanne-Marie.

"Hold up."

Remy wrenched her hand off, throwing her a dangerous glare.

"Any time you wanna quit with the grabbin', Jeanne-Marie."

Unaffected by the quiet threat, she pulled Remy back down on to the couch and locked her grip on his shoulder and her eyes with his. She always had been fearless, Jean-Paul mused, wondering just how suicidal this course of action was. He remained silent though, knowing better than to get in the way when his sister had a plan . . . which she obviously did here.

"You like her, huh?"

The change in her tone was dramatic. A mildness that hadn't been there before was now dominating not only her words, but her physical self as well. Her entire manner held a gentleness that was almost maternal, and it would have scared the hell out of Jean-Paul if he hadn't have seen her personality switch around like this numerous times before.

It appeared that Remy, who was nowhere near as familiar with Jeanne-Marie's moods, was helpless against this placidity. He held her gaze for a moment before hanging his head and expressing an unhealthy interest in his sunglasses, still in hand.

"Yeah."

The single word was barely spoken aloud, more an exhalation than something actually said. Jean-Paul heard it though, and judging from the loosening of Jeanne-Marie's hand, she'd heard it too.

"Then _talk _to her," she encouraged, rubbing at his shoulder affectionately. "None of this creeping around in the shadows stuff. Maybe once she ditches the jerk, she'll realize there's a decent guy right in front of her face. A weird, creepy sort of guy, but decent."

Remy rolled his eyes in what Jean-Paul pegged for an attempt to regain his typical distant demeanor.

"An' why am I tellin' you two this stuff again?"

Jeanne-Marie shrugged, a grin smooth as butter-cream spreading across her features. Her response came with a flip of her hair straight out of a shampoo commercial at which Jean-Paul tried very hard not to laugh. Drama queen indeed.

"Easy. You are powerless in the face of my feminine wiles."

"Which," Jean-Paul provided helpfully, "translates directly to 'I have boobs, and therefore you cannot say no to me'."

Each syllable of Jeanne-Marie's response was punctuated with a marked growth in the size of her smile.

"And don't you forget it."


	7. Welcome to the Show

**TITLE: **I Get By

**SUMMARY: **After being rescued by an unlikely classmate, things get complicated.

**CHARACTERS: **Ororo, Bobby, Rogue, Sam, Remy, other new recruits

**RATING: **T

**WARNINGS: **Mild action-style violence. Some language.

**DISCLAIMER: **I, LithiumAddict, a.k.a. Percy O'Leary, am not in any way shape or form connected to Marvel Comics, Fox Entertainment, or any other related group. I therefore do not own any of the characters represented here. This is fan-fiction, and a labour of love on my part and in no way an intention to undermine the previously mentioned organizations or their intellectual property.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **And so we come back to Sam, and take a trip to the Danger Room. I've never actually attempted to write the Danger Room before except through allusion to things that happened there (which worked out okay, but I never did finish that piece), so this chapter was an interesting one to work on. Further adding to the interest is my first real crack at writing Ororo. If anything, it was a learning experience. Writing it through Sam's eyes helped – he lends himself to a very breezy style of narration that just _works _for me as a writer. Everything comes a little easier when written through him. Consider, for example, that this is the longest chapter of "I Get By" so far. Sam!Muse is great that way.

* * *

On all the official documentation, Xavier's was described as a private prep school for young people demonstrating significant academic potential. As everyone figured out upon their first arrival, this was only half the story.

While the students certainly were pressed hard in their studies, no prep school that Sam had ever heard of had a tweaked out jet underneath the basketball court, an underground complex that could really only be described as military, and the current bane of Sam's existence, a large and overglorified torture chamber referred to affectionately as the Danger Room.

Sam disliked 5:00 am.

He disliked it very much.

His alarm clock had roused him from an already tenuous sleep with a news report about the newest President, and how he was currently looking in to certain pieces of mutant legislation that had been abandoned by his predecessor . . .

It had been at that point that Sam had reached over and hit the sleep button. The radio had been a reminder that he was due at the Danger Room in half-an-hour for what those in charge called the Human Kinetics component of the curriculum. Sam would have loved to see the lesson plans Xavier's would have to present to the higher ups in order to get away with what they did in there. He could see them now: _Practical, hands-on training in combat strategy in a specially designed environment involving pyrotechnics and hard light technology, with a special focus on running/flying/oozing/etc. your ass off._

For some reason though, Sam guessed that Xavier's didn't really fall under the jurisdiction of the local school board. Come to think of it, he wasn't really sure if Xavier's fell under any sort of jurisdiction save its own.

He glanced towards the window, reluctantly reminded by the faint light sneaking in between the closed blinds that he really ought to get his butt in gear and down to the sub-level of the school pronto.

And so, with tired sigh, he rolled out of bed and on to the floor.

"Urf," he managed to gurgle, now an unintentionally twisted pile of limbs and awkward angles on the carpet. This was not the best way to start a morning.

He closed his eyes, trying to determine if it were possible to fall asleep like this. The idea was tempting, and despite the ungainly position he was in, he found himself musing that it just might work. If he just ignored the kink developing in his back, and the unhealthy bend to his left arm, he'd be fine. He closed his eyes and toyed with the idea of drifting off yet again. It would be so easy . . .

Of course, if he did that, he'd have to face the wrath of Storm.

Right. It was time to get up.

With a little ingenuity, some twisting, and push up off the floor, he was in an upright position. The next step then was to get dressed.

When he first showed up at Xavier's, he'd been issued a uniform. Navy blue with day-glo yellow detailing, it was made of some weird high-tech hybrid of spandex and something similarly stretchy but much tougher overall, and had been universally declared by the hive consciousness of the school (or at least by Amara, but it was honestly debatable if the two were at all separate) as being ugly as sin. As Sam pulled the uniform on, he found himself agreeing with this assessment yet again. The stupid yellow belt with the 'X' buckle was especially embarrassing. He risked a glance to the mirror as he fastened it, and was assured once more that yeah, he still looked like a dork, and no, skipping the belt today wouldn't help. Not that he would or anything – the wrath of Storm at work yet again.

"Thanks," he croaked out at his reflection, voice still scratchy from sleep. "Nice to see you too."

His reflection had nothing to say to that, and Sam considered it a victory . . . inanimate object or no. That had to be a comment on his sanity somehow, but it was still too damn early to care.

Now fully dressed, but not yet fed (that would come later; doing the Danger Room on a full stomach was about as hazardous to one's health as skipping a session), Sam ventured through the halls and down to the basement. He wondered absently who all was coming today. The groups varied from week to week, an arrangement supposedly intended to encourage adaptation, creativity, teamwork, and camaraderie. All it really managed to accomplish was keeping all the 'New Recruits' on their toes and unaware of what to expect whenever they showed up for their weekly scheduled session, which in turn resulted in something closer to chaos than teamwork. No-one was saying any of this to Storm though. The headmistress was fanatically optimistic that things would come together soon and would accept nothing that suggested anything to the contrary. She _believed_ in her students, and it hadn't taken Sam long to figure out that that was what made her scary.

Once at the elevator, Sam nodded briefly to those gathered around and waiting. He scanned the crowd, mentally going through everyone present and trying to determine just what might be in store for them today. Last week, all those who were capable of flight were penciled in for Tuesday morning, and had ended up doing aerial obstacle courses. Aside from a few crashes and the associated bruising, Sam had done pretty okay.

Today, who knew? Amara was there (Sam exchanged the rudimentary hellos and how you doings), as were Roberto, Theresa, Emma, and perhaps most significantly – though perhaps that could more honestly be put as most nerve-wrackingly -- that red eyed dude, Marie's boyfriend, who gave him a nod and a smirk before returning to a conversation that he and Theresa had been having. Sam hushed a nervous chuckle and focused instead on preparing himself for the session ahead. This attempt at calming himself eventually degenerated in to relief that Marie's boyfriend had decided to leave him alone. For now.

Sam caught himself scanning the group once more and wondering yet again just what had been planned for them this fine Friday morning. There was nothing that he could think of offhand that everyone had in common, like the flyers last week. He wasn't given time to form a viable hypothesis (rather like Ms. Munroe's Biology class in that respect, he mused), as Ms. Munroe soon came from around the corner, dressed in full uniform and with two people in tow: Marie, who he recognized from English, and Bobby, who he recognized from World History. The two of them had arms slung around each other and easy smiles on their faces – the consummate couple.

But . . . wasn't Marie seeing whatshisface? Reggie or whatever?

That was odd.

The only real explanation that Sam's brain was providing him with was that she was seeing both of them. But since Marie didn't seem like the type that would be in to polyamory (not that he knew 'the type' to begin with, but that was besides the point and dear god there were images in his head now that he DID NOT WANT), he was officially confused . . . which was apparently becoming more and more common for him lately. He shot a glance towards Red Eyes, trying to figure out just what the hell was up, but was prevented from getting a good look, or really gauging anything at all, by Ms. Munroe beginning the session with her traditional inquiry.

"Everyone's here?" she asked, looking over the six navy and yellow clad students before nodding in satisfaction. "Good. Let's go."

And in that moment, she was no longer Ms. Munroe, biology teacher. She was Storm, field leader of the X-Men and their direct superior.

This transformation from civilian to something more, something greater, was apparent in every single student on the roster once they pulled on their leathers, and never ceased to set Sam ill at ease.

_Sam's not here right now,_ he corrected himself as Storm punched a long sequence of numbers in to a keypad next to the elevator. _Leave a message at the sound of the beep, and he'll get back to you as soon as possible. _

The elevator opened, and the group – Bobby and Marie included – piled in. Cannonball (for that's who he was until he was back above ground) stretched his fingers as though it was really going to relieve his tension, and the door behind him closed with a heavy _thud__**.**_

"Most of you know Marie and Bobby," Storm began as the elevator began its plunge to who knew what depths. "They're here to observe today, and will be up on the deck with me."

The rest of the elevator ride passed in an eerie quiet, and ended up opening up to a long corridor. The motley crew that had assembled made its way down it to another door that Sam knew to be the entrance to the Danger Room's observation deck – a place that housed its controls, and behind Storm's back had been dubbed 'voyeurism central' due to the large windows that allowed those on deck to look down on anything and everything going on in the Danger Room.

They all shuffled in to the room, Storm heading straight for one of the many consoles that the room boasted. A few keystrokes on her part brought up a spreadsheet on the main screen bearing the adopted monikers of everyone present, followed by a sequence of numbers that meant absolutely nothing to Sam. Storm, on the other hand, skimmed the information there with a nod before turning towards the group.

"Everyone's stats look fine. Good."

She tapped some keys again, and all of a sudden there were pictures to go with the names. The numbers disappeared leaving only photos and codenames, which started to shuffle around the screen. They began to settle in to pairs as she continued.

"You're going to be put in to partners today based on your stats so far. The computer is currently assessing strengths and weaknesses, and will be organizing you according to that. High offensive scores will get you partnered with someone who has high defensive, so on and so forth. Questions? Yes, Siryn."

Theresa, who had raised her hand only high enough to be parallel to her ear, brought it back down to her side.

"What can we expect once we're actually in there today?"

The smile that Storm luxuriated in at the question was positively wolfish. Never a good sign.

"Random environment, random opponent."

Oh _joy._ Now his morning really was complete.

The expressions on his teammates' faces suggested that they all felt the same way. There were no protests though; they knew better. No-one here had a death-wish.

Storm looked back to the screen now, where all the images now sat stationary in sets of two. Sam's picture, an unflattering thing taken before his first ever session and therefore showcasing him as a nearly comatose mess, was located next to one of the guy he thought had been Marie's boyfriend_. _

Clearly, the universe hated him today.

_I must not groan. Groaning is the Sam-killer. Groaning is the --_

His mangling of Frank Herbert was interrupted by Storm speaking the only words that could have made the situation worse.

"Cannonball, Gambit, you're up first."

He nodded miserably, and looked towards his partner for this exercise. 'Gambit', as he had been identified, grinned as he cracked his knuckles and headed for the Danger Room itself.

"Good luck, Cannonball," came a voice. Turning to the source of it, he was met with a small smile from Marie. He returned it, though his own was likely somewhat (okay, a lot) weaker.

He had questions. Ooooh, he had questions. But right now there was a Danger Room session waiting him, and not getting his ass kicked by whatever the computer decided to throw at him was currently taking precedence over curiosity.

xXx

It took only a few moments to get down in to the Danger Room itself. Metal walls rose up around Sam and Gambit, prison-like and clinically cold.

Sam had never liked clinics. Or doctors. Or needles. Or prisons, or –

**DANGER ROOM ENGAGED. SESSION 3.3.586 STARTED.**

All of a sudden, the walls seemed to waver out of existence as an entirely new environment sprung up in its place. Dry, dusty ground, large piles of wooden crates, and storage facilities surrounded them. There were even some large big rigs strewn throughout as well.

Good, Sam thought to himself as whatever kind of tactician that lived in his head took over. Plenty of cover.

"Shipping yard," Gambit said, now a lot less smirk-y and a lot more intense. Sam nodded, looking around for their opponent and trying not to think too much about how nervous its absence was making him.

"Okay," he replied, hoping his own voice sounded even just a fraction as ready to kick ass and take names. "But where's the target?"

His question was quickly answered. A robot that looked like something straight out of those weird Japanese cartoons his brothers were so fond of stepped out from behind one of the stacks of crates and started coming at them.

A robot? In a shipping yard?

Random opponent was right.

He looked to Gambit in order to plan how best to avoid sudden crushing, and would have made a suggestion had he not seen his partner pulling cards out of thin air.

The uniforms they currently were sporting left very little to the imagination. There was no way Gambit could have hidden a pack of cards in there without them being noticed. So where, exactly, had they come from?

_You know what? I don't want to know._

Besides, there were more important things to attend to. Like avoiding getting creamed by the large and rather scary robot thing that was headed their way.

"Cannonball!" Gambit yelled, dashing towards him. "Get up, or get down!"

That Sam could do.

Getting low to the ground, he pushed off and took to the air. A volley of bright magenta flashes came out of nowhere and screamed across the mock-battlefield towards their target. They made contact with a series of _booms_ that might have thrown Sam off if he were not so intent on getting out of the way. He hovered at a good thirty feet, looking down at the fight below. The robot was teetering now, attempting to recover from the assault. Large black spots and significant damage to the robot's outer casing marked where the cards had made contact and presumably exploded. Again with the nervousness. Who exactly was he dealing with here?

The robot was just on the brink of falling over, staggering as it tried to regain its balance after the assault it had just endured.

Sam saw his in.

Putting on a burst of speed, he went directly for the robot's chest area. With the invulnerability he was supposedly capable of while in flight (something about a force field or some-such . . . at least, that's what he'd been told when he got here), bringing the thing down wouldn't prove a problem. Quick, easy, and the session would be over.

His failing to run this by Gambit, however, quickly presented an issue.

As he came down hard and fast, the next stream of burning, screeching cards was launched at the robot in question. A collision course between these projectiles and Sam himself was imminent, and he therefore did his best to swerve out of the way. Force-field or no, instinct took priority. He managed to narrowly avoid what he'd thought was the certainty of death by explosion (how that would have been explained to his mom, he had no idea) as the cards flew by, but was almost certain he just missed being clipped by a hairsbreadth.

A large, resounding BOOM marked the contact between cards and metal. The survival-oriented part of Sam noted and filed away the smell of fried circuitry and melted plastic, not to mention feel of radiating heat. He hazarded both of these were from the remains of the robot, likely now completely decimated, and made to whisper a prayer of thanksgiving for his continued existence.

**SESSION TERMINATED.**

The world around him suddenly righted itself. He was no longer in a shipping yard, but a room made purely of cold steel, and was heading straight for the very solid, very metal wall.

Prayer forgotten, he tried to pull up.

He failed.

The actual impact ended up being cushioned by that force-field-thingamajig. Just after that, however, his powers disengaged, leaving his unprotected right side to take the full force of the blow as he was propelled backwards and to the ground.

This left him sprawled out awkwardly in a position that was similar to the one he'd been in on his bedroom floor not thirty minutes ago. It was no more comfortable now than it had been then.

"Gambit? Report to the observation deck. Now." That had been Storm's voice, crisp and clear over the intricate sound system wired through the Danger Room.

Sam rolled over, hissing as he put a hand to his now incredibly tender ribs. He gripped at them protectively.

That? That would leave a bruise. Or worse.

"It's okay," he muttered, now with his back to the ground and his face to the ceiling. "I'm alive. No need to be concerned with my well-being or anything."

"Get up, Guthrie," Gambit said testily. A hand was offered his way, and Sam took it. A yank had him upright and back on his feet and facing his 'partner', who had already turned and left for the observation deck. Sam, not having been given any orders of his own, figured that following was probably his best option at this point. Still clinging at his side, he followed.

xXx

Upon arrival at the observation deck, the two of them were greeted by an unimpressed-looking Storm. Well, not so much the two of them, really. It was Gambit that her attention was focused on.

"Answer a question for me, Gambit. How many of you were there in the Danger Room?"

"Includin' the big ugly robot, or--"

"Save the smart mouth. There were two of you."

There was no acknowledgement of this fact on Gambit's part, just a stoic, clenched-jaw silence. His next words came out with a cold precision that made Sam think of Marines.

"Goal was to destroy the target, Storm. I dunno if you noticed, but you ended the session just as the target hit the floor. Objective met."

Sam's eyes ping-ponged between the two new adversaries (he couldn't put in to words just how happy he was to be left out of this), the pain in his side pushed away for now. Gambit's argument was apparently not flying.

"This was supposed to be an exercise in teamwork, Gambit. I've got no place for lone wolves on my team."

Storm sounded dangerous now, and Sam began to think that fearing for his life might be a wise course of action soon. Gambit, on the other hand, was only rising to the occasion. His own voice was sharpening as well, hands balled in fists that Sam was growing ever more leery of, having seen what they could do.

"The job got done. What's it matter if I did it myself?"

There was a narrowing of the woman's eyes that made Sam even more uneasy still. Bobby chose this particular minute to step in both figuratively and literally, siding up to Storm with every ounce of authority he possessed as a roster X-Man shining through.

"The X-Men are a team, Gambit. We train as a team, we fight as a team – those are the rules, and we have them for a reason."

"Doesn't mean I have to like 'em," Gambit fired back, eyes glittering with mutinous anger, making them look as though they were actually blazing. An interesting sight to see, considering their natural colouring. Interesting, in this case, meaning 'able to strike the fear of God in to any sane person'.

Storm was having none of it. Which surprised Sam not at all.

"As long as you live at Xavier's, you'll play by them. You are dismissed."

The expression on Gambit's face was another addition to the list of things Sam would go out of his way to avoid. His sisters presenting a united front, turning in anything late to Doctor McCoy, and cafeteria food were other illustrious items in this group.

"You are _dismissed, _Gambit," Storm repeated, sharper this time.

There was a vein pounding in Remy's temple that looked as though it would burst were there not skin to hold it down. Jaw clamped down on what Sam guessed to be words that shouldn't be spoken, he turned on his heel and left for the elevator.

Storm turned to face Sam now, her face markedly softer now. He feared for the worst anyhow, envisioning her leaning in to him with deceptively sweet questions about why he hadn't intervened coming down on him like hammer blows. He braced himself, swallowing hard.

"You're okay Cannonball? You looked like you came down pretty hard."

He shrugged, not quite sure if he had heard correctly. Had Storm just inquired after his well-being?

"You might want to go get checked out in the medlab anyways. You're free to go. Thank you."

Storm then called on Siryn and Magma to take their places in the Danger Room, leaving Sam standing there on the observation deck still braced for a blow that wasn't coming.

That was it?

He stood there, confused for a moment, but soon felt an overwhelming wave of relief crash over him. He was apparently not destined for death by Storm today. Not that he had _really _expected it or anything, but . . .

As Theresa and Amara headed for their turn, Sam threw a quick glance to Bobby, who had retreated back to Marie's side after his interjection in to Storm and Gambit's quarrel. Marie herself looked almost stunned, and Bobby was busy looking at her with concern knitting his brow. He couldn't help but think there was a chick flick playing out here (and not just any chick flick -- the really bad, overdone, cheesy kind that his sister Paige liked to watch when she stayed home sick), and there was nothing that he would have liked more than to find out just what was going on, but he could feel Storm's eyes on him. It was time to go.

Sam exited the observation deck and set to chasing after Gambit. He wanted to catch the guy before he disappeared, something that seemed to be a talent of his. Sam was going to explode if he didn't get all of these questions off his chest, and it was looking like Gambit was his only real option for answers at this point. He ran right at the edge of triggering his powers and ended up running right in to the elevator just before it closed with Gambit inside it.

"You got somethin' to say?" Gambit (what _was _his real name anyway?) asked, still sounding a little bitter from the reaming out by Storm.

Sam didn't even think. The question was an invitation, and Sam was going to take it while he had the chance. His mouth began to run off on its own, even throwing in some questions that he didn't even know he had wanted to ask. Had he been in a more collected state of mind, he might have been impressed.

Gambit cut him off just as he was building up steam with a raised hand.

"Guthrie, it'd help if I understood a word you were sayin'. Slow down."

Slow down. Okay. Okay. He could do that. A breath, and then gave it another shot.

He tried his questions again, the majority of them generally centering around what the crap had just happened in the Danger Room, and what was up with him and Marie and Bobby. Gambit seemed to understand what he was getting at. Once Sam had managed to babble out his questions yet again, a reply was quick in coming.

"Never said I was with Rogue."

"You had me thinking you were!"

Gambit raised an eyebrow.

"_Good t'know_, remember?" Sam insisted, proving a surprisingly good mimic as he repeated what had been said to him not a week ago. The original speaker of these words remained unmoved.

"So now you jumpin' to conclusions is my fault?"

There was a snappy comeback to that somewhere, but Sam couldn't find it. He settled for another question instead.

"And what about the Danger Room?"

"What about it?"

"That thing. With the cards, and the throwing – what was that?"

"Didn't I explain that to Storm back there?"

"But . . ." Sam floundered wordlessly. "How?"

He knew that wasn't the right question. It wasn't the one he had been meaning to ask either – he'd really wanted to ask where all those cards had come from. His mouth failed to care, having spat it out before any proper consideration had managed to occur.

"M' a man of many talents." Gambit admitted dryly as the elevator door opened. The words had the feel of a joke on the verge of growing old. Sam, unfortunately, didn't quite get the humour, which was something that he imagined was contributing to the amused smile growing on Gambit's face as the two of them walked out of the elevator. Once out, Gambit only paused long enough to fix his unsettling eyes right on Sam.

"You might wanna mind your own business, Guthrie. Just a suggestion."

With that, he pressed on and disappeared around the corner. Sam opened his mouth to speak even though his intended audience was gone, but ended up managing to shut it for that very reason. He pinched at the bridge of his nose with a sigh, feeling ridiculously dorky yet again; the combination of being made to feel ridiculously stupid, being decked out in an ugly, sweaty uniform, his now certainly bruising side (which he'd taken to cradling again) and a stomach that had finally decided it was hungry.

Sam needed breakfast.

And some painkillers.

And a shower.

And maybe a little hole to crawl in.


	8. Growing Colder

**TITLE: **I Get By

**SUMMARY: **After being rescued by an unlikely classmate, things get complicated.

**CHARACTERS: **Marie, Bobby

**RATING: **T

**WARNINGS: **Language, teenage angst.

**DISCLAIMER: **I, LithiumAddict, a.k.a. Percy O'Leary, am not in any way shape or form connected to Marvel Comics, Fox Entertainment, or any other related group. I therefore do not own any of the characters represented here. This is fan-fiction, and a labour of love on my part and in no way an intention to undermine the previously mentioned organizations or their intellectual property.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **There are three people who deserve recognition for this chapter's existence: Murmur (who offered some links to great Bobbycentric fic that both enlightened and inspired), Lucia de'Medici (who hosted and sent along some scans to help point the way), and Green Amber (who sat me down and forced me in to Bobby's head). I'm still having trouble writing our 'beloved' Iceman, and these three lovely ladies were instrumental in pushing me to do this right. Thanks girls.

* * *

After what Storm had already begun referring to as the 'fiasco' in the Danger Room – though literally minutes after the fact was probably a little early to be throwing those sort of words around – the rest of the New Recruits' sessions went off without a hitch, at least in Marie's eyes. Since she was no longer allowed in the Danger Room (_"It wouldn't be right,"_ Storm had pointed out. _"You don't have any powers anymore, Marie. You'd just be another body to look out for. How is that fair to the team?"_), she'd spent a lot of time secretly observing the people in it.

Describing it like that sounded a lot better than 'weak attempt at living vicariously', which would probably have been a little bit closer to the truth.

Denial aside, Marie liked to think she had been developing a bit of an eye for combat as a result of her observations, both sanctioned and not-so-official.

She had actually found herself particularly impressed by Emma Frost this morning. Her classmate, who went by the handle of White Queen, had been gifted with a range of psychic abilities. Her strongest gifts, according to her profile on the Danger Room computer's database, were telepathic projection and reception. There was something in there about the use of a 'diamond form', but the details there were unclear at best.

Today Emma had managed to nail down a psychic link between her and her partner in order to keep communication non-verbal and undetected by their opponent. She'd also managed to confuse the machine with numerous projections of her and her teammate while Roberto had gone in for the final blow.

Even Storm herself had approved of this particular tactic (she'd said so in a discussion between Bobby, Marie, and herself after the sessions), and that was saying something.

As Marie and Bobby exited the elevator and headed back through the school, she made a mental note to stop by Emma's room later to compliment her on her performance. It wasn't really out of her way; Emma had arrived at the mansion and taken up residence in the room next to her about a week or two after Marie had returned from taking the Cure. It was simply a matter of catching the girl while she was there.

Marie turned to initiate some discussion on this particular topic with her boyfriend – she ignored the slight mental twinge as that word crossed her mind – but ended up shifting tactics upon seeing his expression. He looked distant, wrapped up in his own thoughts, or maybe he was seeing something that she couldn't. Any of these options were worrisome.

"Earth to Bobby," she teased, poking him in the side.

Her disruption had the desired effect. Focus returned to his face as he looked to her.

"Mmm?"

"You in there somewhere, or should I send out a search party?"

That easy smile of his that had always been followed closely by one of her own slid over his face, though not without effort.

"I'm here."

"Why so spaced out then?"

That distance returned, though to a much lesser degree.

"I'm just . . . thinking."

"About what?"

"Honestly?"

She cocked her head to the side to communicate just how obvious the answer was. Of _course _she meant honestly. It wasn't as though she was looking to be lied to.

He took her hand as they walked.

"The new recruits."

"What about them?"

"I don't know what to think of some of them. That's all."

"Anyone in particular?"

As he took to running his thumb along the tendons that connected her index finger to the rest of her hand, that distant look returned. Bobby said nothing, but Marie knew him well enough to hear the unspoken yes.

"Who is it?" she asked. "I know that Sam's a little skittish and all, but--"

Bobby shook his head.

"It's not Cannonball. He's doing fine."

"Then who?" It was an effort to check the growing sense of exasperation rising up inside her chest. You'd think she was trying to pry government secrets from the boy or something.

"It's . . ." He hesitated, looking towards her as though the answer were written on her face. She couldn't help but think that he was trying to take a cue of some sort from her, and that thought made her rather uneasy. Why would he be so concerned with her reaction to whatever he would say?

Marie was willing to bet that the confusion and suspicion that she had been starting to feel had made its way to her face, as Bobby quickly looked away.

"It's Gambit."

Had she only the tone to judge by, Marie might have sworn that he was making an apology. Her next question was a careful one.

"What about him?"

"He makes me nervous."

The shrug he gave along with this non-answer was doing nothing to ease Marie's mind.

"Because he's talented?"

Bobby shook his head again, this time with more feeling. The gesture came across as meaningless though; it was simply a motion made for the sake of movement.

"I don't like the guy, Marie."

"You wouldn't say that if you knew him." she insisted, a little surprised at her own vehemence. "Have you ever actually had a conversation with Remy?"

A darkened expression ghosted its way across Bobby's face, and Marie felt something unpleasant churn in her stomach. There was something here that she wasn't being told . . . though it wasn't like that was anything new. This cold, hard fact served as a knife to the gut, twisted with glee as a brief image of Bobby and Kitty sitting too close together in the library threatened to swallow her consciousness whole.

Bobby's answer to this was reserved, but the sound of words spoken aloud rescued her from the self-torture she'd begun to inflict upon herself.

"Sort of."

It wasn't much of an answer, and really only made her even more edgy.

Memories of shared cigarettes, a grey sweatshirt, and graciously donated car rides coloured her next words.

"Then you know that he's a nice guy."

She didn't even get a proper response to her statement. She didn't find herself particularly surprised by this, and she wondered to herself if that was strange or not.

"I'm not the only one who feels this way," Bobby tried, clearly reaching now as he grew increasingly defensive. His voice was now laced with a conviction that Marie didn't feel. "Storm's not sure about him either. You heard what she said to him in the Danger Room."

In Marie's mind, it was a long way from being unsure about someone to not liking them. She would have said so, but Bobby was already busy justifying himself.

"The kid's a loose cannon, Marie. I wouldn't want him at my back in the field."

Her eyes narrowed at this conclusion.

"Kid?" The incredulity she was feeling showed. "Bobby, he's the same age as you."

"Why are you defending him?" Marie noted the chill to his question, and did her best to ignore the implications and accusations that were cheerfully making themselves known through his cool delivery.

"He's a friend."

She had apparently hesitated a second too long with her reply. There was no time to bother with guilt at this though, for Bobby gave her none.

"A friend." His echo of her flirted with dark sarcasm, and Marie found herself growing ever the more defensive.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you didn't believe me."

"I do, it's just--" He dropped off, looking towards the floor. "It's just that . . ."

The sincerity that he'd expressed earlier was nowhere in sight now, and that pretty much did it for her.

How dare he? How _dare_ he question her loyalty?

Bobby had no right to suggest that she was cheating. Not when he was doing just that. The _hypocrite!_

Righteous anger had her dropping his hand and looking him right in his stunned face. That same anger moved her mouth and spewed her reply with venom that shocked even her.

"You want to know about me and Remy, Bobby? Fine. He's helped me out a couple times when you weren't around. He's been good to me, looked out for me. He's a friend. That's all."

It was as she stormed away from Bobby and towards her room that she started having second thoughts and regrets about what she'd just done.

This was _Bobby. _Bobby, who had stuck with her all this time. One of the very, very few points of stability that she had left. Bobby, who was (despite her outright denial of this fact) one of the reasons she'd gone and taken the Cure. Bobby, who she later found out had come to look for her at the clinic amidst the protesters.

"_This isn't what I wanted," _he'd said, and she'd loved him for it at the time.

He did care. He _did._ He'd picked her out right from her first day in classes at 'Mutant High', and he'd stuck with her despite her powers.

_And what about Kitty? He just happens to care about her too?_

She had no cutting reply to this cynical aside, because it was true too. It also sounded like something Remy would have said that night in his room had she not cut him off sharply before the conversation could continue any further.

Bobby, though he hadn't come out and said it, thought her capable of cheating on him. He'd been ready to condemn her for it too, even though he himself was spending more time than was considered proper with a girl not his girlfriend.

Marie caught herself snorting at this. She couldn't even come out and say it to herself, going out of her way to candy coat the fact that Bobby was a cheater.

Cheater.

Cheater.

Cheater.

God, that word hurt.

It hurt even more to apply it to Bobby, who had cared deeply about her. She even dared to hope in her heart of hearts that he still did. He was her boyfriend, after all. Weren't significant others supposed to care about each other?

But Bobby had all but accused her of cheating! He had no right to do that, not when he was cheating on her. He was a liar. A cheater. And he had the gall to lay that on her while he was off with Kitty behind her back.

Ah, Kitty.

The little brainiac who ruled the Chem lab, knew the library inside out, and had her hooks in Bobby.

Nice Kitty. Quiet Kitty.

_Sweet, sweet little Kitty. Who'd done nothing to deserve this ire._ Marie found herself frightened by the fact that she wasn't certain if she was being sarcastic or not. What was wrong with her today? She threw one last look over her shoulder at Bobby and felt for the briefest of moments as though she were looking in the mirror. There she was –

No.

No, she would not let this cloud her head. She would be strong.

_I am going to my room,_ she instructed herself. _I am going to my room, and I am going to get my stuff for Chemistry, and I am going to grin and bear it. _

There was no way she was going to let this get the better of her. Not now.

Despite her best intentions, the contrasting opinions continued to fight it out as she went up the steps and down the main hall towards the dorms – classes were still on in spite of everything, and she needed to grab her books -- and she could feel the beginnings of a headache welling up just behind her forehead on top of that.

Peachy. And just before class, too.

She threw the door to her room open and herself down on the bed with every intention of screaming. She ended up indulging this particular craving, and gave in to a sob or two on top of that.

This was no way to start a Friday.


	9. Snow White Has Her Say

**TITLE: **I Get By

**SUMMARY: **After being rescued by an unlikely classmate, things get complicated.

**CHARACTERS: **Marie, Remy, Bobby

**RATING: **T

**WARNINGS: **Emotional teenage girls with issues ahoy.

**DISCLAIMER: **I, LithiumAddict, a.k.a. Percy O'Leary, am not in any way shape or form connected to Marvel Comics, Fox Entertainment, or any other related group. I therefore do not own any of the characters represented here. This is fan-fiction, and a labour of love on my part and in no way an intention to undermine the previously mentioned organizations or their intellectual property.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **Readers? Meet Emma. Emma? These are the readers. Play nice now, y'hear?

On a more intellectual note, I'm rather pleased to have finally written Emma. She's served as a background character of increasing importance throughout this story (we saw her car, her frozen yogurt, and then the girl herself in the Danger Room), and getting to a chapter in which we see from her perspective has been something I've been excited about from chapter two. I knew I wanted her in here, and finally getting formally acquainted with her means that we've finally rounded out the main cast. Good stuff.

We also finally get a little more of a comprehensive look at the Bobby/Marie relationship here, and the closest thing we've got so far to an explanation of why Marie clings to him the way she does. I apologize in advance for the lack of Remy. If it's any consolation, the next chapter comes from him . . . and introduces both Henri and Emil. (You listening, Luce?)

* * *

Seated at her desk with books spread neatly before her, Emma had been busy pretending to study for Art History during the precious time between the Danger Room and her first class of the day. In reality, she had been trying to figure out how best to bluff her way through the test she'd have to write in two hours, which would have explained the focused, pensive look on her face. One would hardly be blamed for confusing it with studious devotion.

Key words here? _Had been. _

In the middle of her plotting out a suitably vague response that would adapt well to any question that could be asked in the paragraph answer section (pay no mind to the fact that she could have been using this time to actually study the material that was going to be covered), what she had taken to referring as her 'psychic radar' had been set off. There was a disturbance in the force, as it were, and it was coming in loud and insistent on the psychic plane.

**Whymewhythiswhy nowbobbyremyIha tethis . . . **

Shaking her head to clear it of the noise, Emma made her vexation clear to the wall that separated her and this voice.

"I'm trying to study here," she lied, finishing this up with an irritated click of her tongue that she didn't really mean.

Living next to Marie was always a little strange; a constant stream of white noise was always coming off her. This had been explained away by another psychic she'd chatted with as being the result of Marie's mutation. Apparently, the girl had voices in her head. It had all come off a little schizo to Emma, but hey. Normalcy was pretty much a dirty word here at Xavier's anyhow.

Still, a coherent broadcast of clear thoughts from Marie? This was new. This bore further investigation. The fact that it got Emma away from her books helped as well, despite the fact she really ought to have been accomplishing things.

Of course, there was that saying about cats and curiosity. Emma indulged in a small laugh – she'd never been much of a cat person. Or a pet person for that matter.

Slamming her textbook shut with a little more pleasure than she ought to have felt, she wandered out of her room and banged on the first door to her right.

"Marie?" she called.

There was a muffled 'come in' followed by yet another projection. It was stronger now, which did nothing but pique Emma's curiosity further.

**Ican'tstandthiswhymewhythiswhynow . . . **

Opening the door, she was greeted by the sight of Marie jamming a binder and a textbook in to a shoulder bag.

"Are you . . . okay?" Emma asked, noting in particular the violence with which Marie was performing this action. Something was up.

"Just fine," Marie replied as she moved on to jamming a pen in to her bag as well.

**Ihatethissomuch . . . **

"Right." Emma looked at the girl sideways as she spoke, assuring that her voice held both cynicism and disbelief in equal parts – a combination she was good at, and proud of. "Sure you are."

A highly unamused Marie looked up and fixed her with what might accurately have been described as a death glare.

"You got something constructive to say Emma, or are you gonna let me pack my bag and get to class in peace?"

The puffy, bloodshot eyes that were now locked and loaded with what Emma was placing as defiant defensiveness spoke to copious tears recently being shed. Leaning against the doorframe, she crossed her arms just over where her ribcage met to form her breastbone and tried very hard not roll her eyes.

"Sorry for trying to be a concerned neighbor. I heard you projecting and came to see if you were okay, which you're obviously not. "

Drifting on to the psychic plane, she found herself floating in a sea of color and sound that resembled what she'd always assumed an acid trip would be like. The remnant of Marie's projections drifted by (they sounded like the color blue), and she snatched them up without any pretence at delicacy. The plane then taking the form of an audio mixing board in response to her intentions, Emma quickly and effectively cleaned the thoughts up and evened them out before sending them back to Marie.

**Why me? Why this? Why now? Bobby, Remy . . . I hate this. **

**I can't stand this. Why me? Why this? Why now?**

**I hate this so much. . .**

Slipping back in to the temporal world, she fixed Marie with a look that while managing to avoid glare status, still demanded an answer.

This course of action proved effective. Marie was suddenly contrite, whatever violence that might have been in her stance and demeanour melting away. It left behind a sad and confused-looking young woman.

"It's been a rough morning," she offered by way of an apology.

Emma would have made a comment towards the self-evidence of this, but restrained herself. There was too much of herself there to mock, as loathe as she would be to admit it.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Since when do you like to play therapist?"

A dry smile cracked across Emma's face.

"I just might surprise you." She took a seat on the bed that had yet to be made, making herself comfortable amidst the twisted blankets and sheets. "Now, do you want to talk about this or what?"

Marie had a seat as well, though taking it with a heavy sigh.

"Where should I start?"

"The beginning is conventional."

It was to Emma's interest that Marie tightened her grip on the shoulder bag, clutching it close to her stomach the way a little girl might hold a teddy bear.

"Bobby's cheating on me."

"With that Katherine girl."

"Does everyone know?"

"Some do, some don't."

Marie bit her lip and looked to the floor.

"How much do you know?"

Emma adjusted her position so she was sitting cross-legged and facing her. That was a dangerous question to ask any psychic – first lesson she'd ever learned after manifesting, and the hardest one. There was often a distinct difference between the real answer, and what the person asking wanted to hear.

Tilting her head to the side, she tried to determine where on the spectrum Marie fell. The voices had given way to that familiar white noise once more. Like a blast of cold air, the projection burst through strong and clear and verging on hopeless.

**Bobbycheaterhowwhyhowwhy . . .**

Emma made the call. She liked Marie – the girl had been friendly to her upon arrival, but had the good sense to leave Emma to her own devices. She was courteous, never having tried that buddy-buddy "we're all mutants together so we should all get along" crap that seemed to be popular here. She was what Emma's mother would have called 'a well-mannered individual', and didn't deserve to be left hanging. The truth then, at least here.

"He's been cozy with her for a while now."

There was a certain distaste to her words that Emma didn't bother to conceal. She'd been put in the same ethics class as Katherine – Philosophy of Human Mutation - and right off the bat the two of them had butted heads. It really came down to the fact that Emma was a little more fast and loose with regards to her own moral code. That bothered the other girl, which really only encouraged Emma to be more outspoken about it. Plus, there was the fact that Katherine was something of a bratty little tart in the first place.

But to the issue at hand.

Marie didn't look to be taking the news well at all, though it wasn't as if Emma had expected her two in the first place.

"How long is a while?" she asked, voice small.

A small part of Emma seized in sympathy at this. She'd been there, done that, bought the tee-shirt, and shrunk it in the wash a long time ago. Relationships, at least in her admittedly negative experience, were highly overrated and hardly worth the time, effort, or drama.

"Do you really want to know?" There was a sensitivity there that she hadn't even known she possessed. She would normally have worried about her mental health at such an observation, but now wasn't the time. She could berate herself later.

It took a moment, but Marie shook her head.

"So why do you stick around then?"

"Because it's normal," she admitted quietly. "I like normal."

"Cheating on you isn't what I'd call normal, Marie."

"It's not that. It's just that . . ." She paused in what was Emma figured was supposed to be thought, but was really a chance to blink back more tears. "He's there. He hasn't left me."

"But he's with Kitty behind your back. How is that good?"

There was a choking sound from across the bed, and nothing more.

"Marie? You okay?"

There was a sudden sense of heaviness, like the feel of a door locking, that suddenly set itself there on the bed between the two girls. Marie was closing herself off mentally, and was unlikely to say a further word.

Surely a little nudge wouldn't hurt?

Emma slid back on to the psychic plane. Intuitively knowing what she was looking for, she found herself faced with a brain that she knew to be Rogue's. It was kind of funny looking, actually – like a patchwork of many different brains, sewn up together rag-doll style. Reaching out, she tapped at it like she would have at a fishbowl.

She didn't expect what happened next.

An overwhelming wave of thought hit Emma, throwing her off balance mentally as she grasped for an anchor of some kind to cling to while riding it out.

_Everybody goes. Nobody stays. John left. I thought he was my friend, and he left me. It was always us three – Bobby, John, and me – I thought we were tight. I thought we were a tripod. Three of us. Three legs. He left, and one of the legs was kicked out from under me. He left. He left. He left._

_Doctor Grey died. Twice. Oh, god, twice. She'd been so kind to me. . . she didn't deserve that at all. She talked to me when I first showed up at the institute, showed me my room. I was scared, and she was so nice to me. Then she went out of the Blackbird and never came back. She left, she left, she left._

_Mister Summers died too. He helped me understand math, and was so proud when I finally __got__ whatever he was trying to teach me. He was going to show me how to fly the Blackbird too, one day. He said so. He said that I was smart, that I'd be able to handle it. Then Doctor Grey died for the first time. He left, he left, he left. _

_And Logan . . . Logan cares, but he's always so distant. He comes and he goes, but he never stays. He loves me like a little sister, I know, but he never sticks around. He always comes and says hello to me when he gets back from wherever he's been, but it's always followed by a goodbye. He leaves, he leaves, he leaves._

_Professor Xavier left. I'd liked him a lot. He ran this place, welcomed me here, and looked out for all of us at the Institute. He was always so cordial to everyone, and now he's gone. Vaporized. Dead. He left, he left, he left. _

_They leave, they leave, they leave. All of them._

_Bobby doesn't. Bobby stays, Bobby cares. He might be seeing Kitty, but he hasn't left. He's right there and isn't going to go. It hurts, but he's here. He won't leave like the others, even if he's not just mine. He's willing to pretend for me. He cares enough to fake it, to lie. I can do the same for him. I can fake it too. Because he stays, he stays, he stays. _

It took a moment for Emma to recover once she found herself back in the real world. She'd never felt anything like that coming from Marie before. She'd never felt anything like that coming from anyone at all. It was huge and she'd nearly drowned in it. Gasping as she tried to find herself again – _they leave, they leave, they leave _– Emma tried to determine what had just happened. Something that felt almost like sea-sickness sent her head spinning again, and she ended up leaning against Marie to try and maintain an upright position. Grasping at the other girl's forearm as though life itself depended on it, Emma groaned quietly at the pounding in her skull. She may have been a psychic, but the truth of the matter was that she was still relatively new to her powers, and despite her skill with them, she was not yet their mistress. There was no way in hell she'd ever cop to that, but it didn't change the fact that she had been taken by surprise at this wave of thought and emotion, and had been unprepared for the fallout. She grasped harder at Marie, needing an anchor. Needing to get rid of this splitting headache.

She was suddenly very tired. Drained.

"I'm sorry," Marie whispered, rubbing at her now wet eyes. "I don't know what came over me."

_I do, _Emma thought, and she cursed herself for putting her nose where it didn't belong. She wondered distractedly if it wasn't putting her nose where it didn't belong that she was regretting, but doing it without fully knowing what she was getting in to. She'd nudged people that way before, but had never gotten a reaction like that. Of course, she'd never seen a brain quite like Marie's either, which might have had something to do with it.

"You're alright, Emma?"

She nodded, trying to focus.

_He cares enough to fake it, to lie. I can do the same for him._

Her head somewhat clearer now (except for the remnants of that wave), Emma looked back at Marie.

"Don't tell me you're going to crawl back to him."

"He didn't deserve me treating him like that."

"Marie, he's cheating on you. He deserves every bit of it."

"Oh?" Her eyes grew hard. "And what you would you know about it?"

"Sebastian Shaw, Dashwood Academy. My friend Selene and I ended up walking in on him and some freshman girl." Emma shot back instantaneously, a sort of strength found in the snipe-like feel of her words. "I hope he rots."

Emma particularly enjoyed the silence and hung head that followed, however small-minded that might have been. She felt a little more solid now as she shifted back towards the offensive again. It was her home turf, and it felt good.

"And what about this Remy?" she asked, recalling the other name that had been swirling through Marie's head before she'd come to investigate.

"What about him?

Emma scoffed.

"Please. Snivel if you like, Marie, but don't treat me like I'm stupid. He's there in your thoughts too."

Marie conceded to this by turning away, but said nothing.

"Marie . . ."

"I don't know," she blurted. "He's a friend, but he's not. Bobby got all pissed off because he doesn't like Remy, and I defended him."

Marie glanced over to the clock, and the mental residue of frustration settled over Emma's own mind.

**Whydoeslifealwa ysgoonwhenshitg oesdown?**

The fact that this particular projection was more like the ones that had drawn her here than the one she'd just about drowned in pleased Emma to no end. Relatively familiar ground at last.

"Go," she said, doing her best to sound kind. Her success at this was doubtful at the very best, taking in to account her current state. "Wouldn't want you to miss class."

The blank looks Emma received were met with as cool an expression as she could muster.

"You're projecting, Marie. I can't help but pick it up."

"Anyone ever tell you that's kinda creepy?"

"It's the general consensus, yeah."

She glanced over to the clock herself, realizing that she never really did come up with her foolproof bullshit answer. She probably wouldn't get the chance now, which sucked to say the least since she had to get to Art History herself within the next ten minutes.

She rose off the bed with a stretch.

"I should get to class too. You take care, Marie." The last part of that farewell sounded like an afterthought, but Emma truly did mean it.

In the meantime, that drained feeling had yet to go away. There was also the matter of her splitting headache to tend to. A bottle of aspirin was kept in the industrial sized first aid kit in the kitchen, and as she returned to her room and grabbed her own books, she made plans to swing by on her way to class.


	10. Family Reunion

**TITLE: **I Get By

**SUMMARY: **After being rescued by an unlikely classmate, things get complicated.

**CHARACTERS: **Remy, Jean-Paul, Jeanne-Marie, Henri, and (everyone squee now) Emil

**RATING: **T

**WARNINGS: **

**DISCLAIMER: **I, LithiumAddict, a.k.a. Percy O'Leary, am not in any way shape or form connected to Marvel Comics, Fox Entertainment, or any other related group. I therefore do not own any of the characters represented here. This is fan-fiction, and a labour of love on my part and in no way an intention to undermine the previously mentioned organizations or their intellectual property.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **My deepest thanks to you all for your patience. This chapter is officially dedicated to everyone who has stuck around despite the fact that school prevents me from contributing to fandom. I have a chance now, and I hope that this was worth the wait. I'm offering up EMIL here, people. I really, really hope so.

For those interested: My Emil love has humble roots. I'd never really paid attention to the guy outside the context of "Remy's funny cousin" until I came across one fic in particular. It had been recced to me by the lovely Amber as an example of OMGDONOTWANT. She was right. The only bright patch was the introduction of Emil, who was probably the most likable and most well-written character in the story. Considering it was supposed to be a Rogue/Remy fic, it was pretty lame (and pretty telling) that I ended up hoping for Rogue to end up with Emil, who seemed to be the only considerate male in all of New Orleans (I love asshole!Remy in the Evolution fandom as much as the next girl, but there comes a point where you go beyond asshole to pressing charges and taking out restraining orders). I liked what I saw in him there, and found myself appreciating the character a lot more. And so he was introduced here in "I Get By" through references to a bratty emo kid back home. I never intended to introduce him outright, but some conversations with Amber and an afternoon of scribbling down some ideas a while back ended up bringing him right to my door. I didn't have the heart to say no to the guy . . . so here he is, along with the rest of the crew.

* * *

Hiding in a small back corner of the library, Remy and Jean-Paul were busy doing their best to speed along the oncoming weekend. This was a delicate process requiring a blatant disregard of the homework stacked around them, not to mention engaging in what anyone else would have referred to as gossip. Remy, however, preferred the term 'ranting'. 'Ranting' made it seem less petty, sounded less demeaning, and made him feel a little bit better about going off about his morning and the happenings therein.

Needless to say, they hadn't been particularly pleasant.

He'd managed to go and screw up that Art History exam, which had gone and set the tone for the rest of the class, not to mention the morning.

"So then this girl, Emma, spends the whole class lookin' at me like I'm some kinda lab experiment or something."

Jean-Paul shuddered.

"I know her. And I wouldn't touch that with a thirty-nine and a half foot pole."

The nod Remy gave could easily have qualified as enthusiastic. His friend had just gone and hit the nail on the head as far as he was concerned.

"She's a knockout, but friggin' nuts."

Jean-Paul made a non-committal humming sound that Remy never got to interrogate the meaning of due to Jeanne-Marie's discovery of their hiding place.

"Guys, come _on,_" she interrupted, leaning against a conveniently located bookcase_._ "She's a telepath. Crazy comes with the territory."

"And hi to you too, sis."

"I'm sorry, was I interrupting your precious male bonding time?"

Tilting his chair so he was balanced precariously on its two back legs, Jean-Paul blew out a breath with a smile and a lazy shake of his head.

"I've never gotten why you ask questions when you don't care about the answer."

Jeanne-Marie ignored her brother's light barb, turning her eyes towards Remy.

"Figured I'd find you here. You got guests waiting outside."

Remy's eyes narrowed. Who the hell would come to visit him? He hadn't been expecting anyone, and he had no idea who would bother to come up to Xavier's to visit, let alone who might have known about Xavier's in the first place. Privacy was pretty high on Storm's list of priorities, though for reasons that centered around occurrences before Remy had ever darkened the mansion's doorway. He'd heard stories about a full-on military raid, and about some students getting hit with tranquilizers, but no-one had ever taken the time to sort out the truth from rumour for him, and those who might have been able to were still touchy about the whole affair. Understandably so, if the rumours had any degree of truth.

What it came down to was the fact that the location of Xavier's was kept 'in the family' as it were. Families of the students (and in certain cases, not even them) were the only people outside of the staff, student body, and appropriate licensing boards who knew just where Xavier's was.

So who would come?

Jean-Paul leaned back even further in his chair, now not so much precariously balanced as dangerously so.

"Don't look so thrilled."

Remy considered kicking the chair out from beneath him. Of course, the satisfaction of seeing his friend sprawled out on his ass wouldn't be there, since Jean-Paul could fly and all, and would likely just float in the air were the chair to suddenly no longer be under him.

Shoving aside the textbooks that he hadn't opened in the first place instead, Remy interrogated Jeanne-Marie further.

"Who is it?"

"Couple of guys who talk like you do. They're about our age, too."

"Talk like me?"

"Southmouths, boy."

Jeanne-Marie had attempted a thick Louisiana accent that ended up sounding horrid when pushed through her own Quebecois. It would have been painful to listen to at any other time, but there were other issues at hand. It seemed to amuse her and her brother well enough though; they shared a bout of whooping laughter.

Remy, in the meantime, took the words in and worked them over, following the logic to conclusion.

Two guys, around his age, with Southern accents.

A couple of the guys from St. Fagan's? That was doubtful. His friends from school wouldn't go out of their way to come see him. He'd never been particularly close with them in the first place – an occupational hazard of being a LeBeau, especially after the age of twelve – and even less so once he'd made the trip up North to Xavier's.

So who did that leave?

_Best guess? _he thought to himself with a growing sense of pleasure. _Family._

That left one last question: who in their right mind would take off from New Orleans and drive all the way across the country on an apparent whim just to come and see him?

That really didn't narrow it down. Most of his family hardly counted as being in their right mind to start with. As to being willing to driving all the way across the States? That shortened the list a little, though not by much. His family had a tendency to do strange things like that on occasion.

He rose, thanking Jeanne-Marie inattentively as he pushed through the mansion at a run. Once out the front doors and down the steps, he shaded his eyes against the bright afternoon sun and looked to the parking lot.

Parked there was a blue four-door P.O.S. special that looked like it wouldn't have been able to make it across town, let alone the country. The two figures sitting on the hood, however, said that against those odds, the car had indeed made its way from Louisiana to New York.

"I'll be damned," Remy laughed to himself, hardly daring to believe what there before him.

The older of the two travelers was a tall, well-built individual whose sturdy frame managed to parallel Remy's own wiry construction quite well. Height-wise, he danced somewhere around six feet, though only really hitting the mark on a good day. Dark brown hair and smooth lines defined him, as did a languid posture that could go military-straight in less time than it would take his heart to beat. Nineteen years old, and with a wicked (or questionable, depending on who you talked to) sense of humor, this was Remy's brother. He waved as he noticed Remy.

The younger boy, sixteen years at best to an outside eye but only a few months shy of eighteen to those in the know, was running a hand through black hair that was obviously the work of some hair dye a while back, considering the shock of bright red becoming apparent at the roots. He had an even slimmer build than Remy, which was a trait he owed to his mother, but was significantly shorter. The kid had been a ball of nervous energy as a child that through the efforts of Jean-Luc and his own father had carefully been moulded, his energy redirected in to healthier pursuits.

Once again though, this was the LeBeau family. 'Healthier' was a very subjective sort of word. This was a cousin of Remy's, and his idea of a hard day's work (or a good time) would generally have been frowned upon by polite society, not to mention various law enforcement agencies.

"Henri! Emil!" Remy called, breaking out in to a run and a grin.

After exchanging the rudimentary back-slapping hugs, the three of them exclaimed over each other in a loud, mangled, rapid-fire combination of French and English that even the twins would have had a hard time deciphering.

"Remy!" Henri cackled, "How you doin', you sonovabitch?"

"Hangin' in there," he grinned, hugging his brother once more after looking down at him for a few moments in wonder at what a few months could still do. Having not been home since Christmas, it had been a while since he and his brother had seen each other face to face.

He looked to Emil now, intending to make a crack about the black hair. It wasn't because the hair was new – it would have been that colour for a year come next month, if he was remembering correctly – but because they never ceased to get to him. The kid's nostrils would flare a little bit, and then he'd pout before launching in to a full scale tactical assault, his weapon of choice being verbal spears. Or a right hook, depending.

Unfortunately, the brilliant little retort that Remy had managed to come up with was lost when he noticed just what Emil was wearing. It wasn't the crappy band tee-shirt for a group he'd never heard of that did it, but the _jeans._

"Lapin," Remy said, falling back on the boy's longtime nickname and trying his best to sound as kind as he could, circumstances given. "You _do_ know those are girls' pants, right?"

Emil let out an overdramatic, long-suffering sigh that suggested he'd dealt with this before.

"They're called _skinny jeans_," Emil pointed out with far more solemnity than was required. "And I'll have you know the chicks dig 'em."

Remy's suspicion of the jeans shifted to a level of disbelief he wouldn't have thought himself capable of five minutes ago.

"I hate to break it to you Emil, but I'm pretty sure there's no universe in which those are attractive."

"You ever actually worn a pair Remy?"

He'd never, thank the powers, and therefore that round went to Emil. Remy still had his dignity though, and he'd take that as opposed to a moral victory over girls' pants any day. His cousin leered triumphantly at the silence, relishing his win. "Yeah. S'what I thought."

Henri just laughed, hooking his thumbs through the belt-loops of his own jeans and leaning back against his car.

"Don't worry too much about it, Remy. Those 'chicks' Emil's talking about are all fifteen year old scene girls who think it'd be hot to watch him and one of his guy friends make out."

The pout that Remy had meant to get with a joke about Emil's hair marked his cousin's face now. It was almost as satisfying as if he'd been the one to put it there.

"So what the hell brings you guys way up here?" he asked, feeling the mood change somewhat with the question. He caught himself taking a step towards the edge and back in to family mode, recognizing the look on their faces before Henri even had a chance to explain.

"Business. Dad's in town to take care of some stuff with the Yanks; run a couple jobs, knock a few heads in. That kind of shit. He dragged us along to help."

"What? You think we'd go that far out of our way to come see your sorry ass?" Emil grinned, getting himself wrapped up in a headlock for his trouble courtesy of Henri, who continued to speak while his hostage struggled.

"We had an afternoon off, so we figured we'd stop by. Dad would've come too, but got held up by a screaming match with Danny and the rest of 'em. Apparently, New York isn't running as tight a ship as they been lettin' on."

Remy let out a whistle. The New York and New Orleans Guilds had never been on the best of terms, and professional relations tended to dissolve in to little more than pissing contests despite the fact that New Orleans was the established seat, head, and center of all Guild activity, and Jean-Luc its leader. That was just the way it was, and Remy got that.

His face must have fallen at least a little though, as Henri continued with hardly a pause.

"He sends his best though. Wants us to make sure you're doing okay, and that these Xavier people are lookin' out for you."

"Can I breathe now? Please?" Emil squeaked out, his face by now a lovely shade of tomato.

"We got some time to kill. Anywhere around here that we can go catch up at?"

"I know just the place. Just let me go grab my sunglasses."

xXx

A short drive from the mansion brought them to a small coffee shop that Remy knew the twins frequented to feed their shared caffeine dependency. A lot of the other older Xavier students frequented it as well, due to both its relative nearness to the school and the fact that the owner didn't much care about genetics as long as no-one started anything.

Henri snickered as he read the wooden sign above the door.

"Henry's. Nice."

"Figured you'd approve."

"I take it I'm the only one who's thinkin' that's kinda lame."

"Yes," Henri and Remy replied in unison as they trooped in.

The place was painted in reds, browns, and golds – a warm sort of palette that made the place seem classier than it really was. The smell of cloves, cinnamon, and fresh-ground coffee sat on the air like old friends who had always been there and really had no intention of leaving.

In the back corner, three girls sat laughing and chatting over empty mugs and plates bearing nothing but crumbs. They wouldn't have stood out were it not for the identical shirts they wore. All three of them were a fire engine red, bearing a stylized torch in black and the word PURITY scrawled in bold text beneath.

"Crap," Remy muttered. "What are they doing here?"

Emil's face screwed up in a confused grimace as he looked from the girls to their shirts and then to Remy.

"Purity?"

"Pro-human activists," he explained distastefully, doing his best to herd Henri and Emil along. The two of them complied with the herding, for which Remy was thankful, but Henri seemed more amused by the affair than anything as he twisted around to glance over his shoulder at the girls and his brother.

"I assume there's a story here?"

It couldn't have been put any more mildly. Trying to tamp down his exasperation and not roll his eyes too much, he spoke quietly through grit teeth.

"Once upon a time, some people figured that humans were better than mutants and decided to get militant about it. The end."

"That's not a very good story."

"Just get something to drink guys. I'm gonna go wait outside."

"Scared?"

His voice had reduced itself to a half-mumble as his mind whirred with recent news reports about the increasingly aggressive tactics Purity was using, and how buddy-buddy the organization was getting with more and more powerful people in the political realm.

What had originally started out as just a grassroots protest group had slowly but surely managed to grow in to something insidious, racist, and far more powerful than a group with their kind of views should have been.

Everything Remy knew, and everything he'd been hearing said he had better watch his ass.

"That I'm gonna do something stupid in front of people who wouldn't mind me dead? Sure."

Taking those precious seconds to bite off a tart response had been a mistake. His escape was cut off now; the girls had noticed them.

"Hi," one of them said as the three of them approached. She offered a hand to Henri, who happened to be closest to her. "My name's Claire."

One of her friends, a blonde, smiled warmly, and had she not been wearing the shirt she was, Remy might have smiled back. "We kinda noticed you checking out our shirts. You guys know anything about Purity?"

"Not much," Remy said through his teeth, now a vice in his mouth, sending up a silent prayer for the strength to get through this without doing something completely imbecilic. He shifted his weight in case the need to throw it around arose.

_Claire's wearing steel-toed work boots under her jeans, _he noted, mind now whirring in a direction wrought by years of training that would have made his father proud. _The tall one behind her steps heavy on her right side. She'll lead with her left, whatever she does. Blonde's a rightie. With knuckles like those, she probably knows how to throw a punch, or at least thinks she does._

"Here," Claire said, digging in to her purse.

As lightly as Henri and Emil had seemed to be taking his warnings, the quickest of peeks assured Remy that the same thoughts were going through their heads. Even a trained eye would have had trouble catching the subtle change to Emil's stance (he was ready to go straight in to a crouch; the better to spring for the knees of the tall one if things went sour) or the way Henri turned his shoulder (he'd drive it straight at the blonde to get her over to the open floor ten feet away were something to go down).

She withdrew a couple pamphlets and pressed them in to Remy's hand.

The control he exerted over himself to avoid crumpling them all up right then and there was astounding.

"I don't know what you've heard about mutants, but--"

"Hey!" the man behind the counter interrupted. "My shop's not a soapbox."

The girls' collective gaze snapped towards him, and the cool fury being directed his way by all rights ought to have been enough to burn the place down.

"Sorry about that."

Claire didn't look like she meant it. In fact, she looked like she wanted nothing more than to give Henry a piece of her mind. Henry himself appeared to see this, but failed to care.

"Keep your politics away from my coffee, girl. They're not welcome here."

The one girl who had remained quiet up to that point turned back towards the boys and whispered under her breath.

"There's a number on the back of those. You call it if you've got questions, okay?"

Remy adjusted his sunglasses as casually as he could manage while trying to mask his discomfort.

"Thanks," he bit out, and all three of the girls smiled broadly as they murmured a few 'you're welcomes' and walked out the front door.

"Sorry about that," the man behind the counter apologized once the door had closed behind them. Remy waved him off, just happy that they were gone.

"S'alright."

The man behind the counter didn't appear to buy this flippancy.

"No-body should be accosted when they're just looking for a jolt. Any way I can make it up to you?"

"That depends," Emil grinned, stepping up and resting his elbows on the counter. "Can you make a decent café au lait?"

xXx

It turned out that he could.

"Not quite as good as home," Emil conceded a few minutes later from his seat on the patio outside. "But pretty friggin' good for a Northerner."

Henri tilted his mug gently, the drink inside just falling short of spilling over the edge.

"It kills me to do this, but I'm gonna have to agree with the twerp."

"Should I be marking this date on the calendar or something?"

Henri reached over and flicked the side of Emil's head with one hand while taking a deep draught with the other. After a generously sized _aah,_ he beamed.

"Just don't get used to it."

Flipping the bird at his cousin, Emil leaned back as a smile that would have made even the least paranoid person imaginable suspicious made itself comfortable on his face.

"You know what I could go for?"

"Nope. You're probably going to tell us though."

"You always were the smart one."

Henri rolled his eyes as he put his coffee back on the table.

"Don't keep us in suspense or anything."

Reaching over and flicking Henri's head in what was probably some kind of attempt at revenge, he drew his hand away with a package of cigarettes that had, at least up until that moment, been resting unsuspectingly in the pocket of Henri's shirt.

With an unnecessary flourish, he pulled a lighter from nowhere and lit up. Remy nearly snickered at this; the whole sulky, smoker emo-boy thing probably drove his harem of fifteen-year-old girls wild. He settled for a shake of his head as he tried to picture a bunch of bratty teens in ugly, overpriced clothes squealing with unholy glee as Emil pouted in some dark corner and went on about how much his life sucked.

The image was more than a little entertaining. In accordance with his better judgment, he banished it with a snort and a sip of the water he'd gotten for himself.

Henri, on the other hand, appeared unamused.

"Y'r still a little young for that shit, don't you think?"

Emil took this second to regard the cigarette in his hand with an expression that went from annoyed to wistful.

"Okay. Yeah. I'm underage"

Henri looked ready to verbally pounce on this, but Emil paid it no mind, gesturing absently at both Remy and Henri with his cigarette-laden hand.

"So are you two. Now that we've got that all out in the open, can I finish this, please?

Remy shook his head with a chuckle before looking to Henri.

"And Dad puts up with him _why_?"

"'Cause he's so goddamn pretty," Henri sniggered, reaching over and ruffling the younger boy's hair with one hand while taking the cigarette with the other. Emil just huffed to himself, pulling a new one from that same place he'd gotten the lighter from. This was a rather clever illusion, involving the pockets of his pants (though how he got anything in to those pockets was beyond Remy) and a little deception. He pondered complimenting his cousin on his execution; he'd been the one to teach the little punk that trick, after all.

"Funny," Emil muttered, placing it between his lips. "Mercy said the same thing last night."

Remy reached for his water, sipping lightly before making a suggestion.

"It's just a thought, Emil, but you might wanna stop talking trash about Mercy."

Henri waved off this concern nonchalantly with one hand as he gently tapped out his stolen prize in the ashtray that sat between the three of them with the other.

"Nah. It's cool." The lack of real concern surprised Remy; normally his brother was incredibly defensive when it came to his girlfriend. The two of them were a serious thing, and though no-one in the family was saying anything out loud, Remy knew for a fact that they were expecting to welcome Mercy in to the clan sometime in the near future.

"And why's that?"

"'Cause I know where Emil really was last night."

Emil slunk down in his chair with a huff.

"Shut up."

This sort of reaction, of course, called for nothing less than further goading. It was simply one of those unwritten, unspoken rules in familial relations that screamed for obedience here. Remy would have done it himself had Henri not satisfied that calling instantaneously.

"That pink body armor was hot stuff, Emil. Really."

"They finally got you wearing it, huh?"

Emil didn't even bother dignifying the question with a real answer.

"What about _you_?" he asked, fixing Remy with an accusatory glare and therefore proving that distraction was indeed the LeBeau response of choice when faced with discomfort. "Mattie says your head's way out of the game."

"And how would she know?"

The stunned look that Emil gave him in response was a shocked thing, disbelieving.

"Remy. She's _Tante Mattie_."

That was fair enough. Tante Mattie had been the only real mother figure in Remy's life, since Jean-Luc's wife had died before Remy's adoption. She'd had a hand in raising each and every child in the Guild as well as an eerie, uncanny ability to know things like that even though she couldn't, at least by terms normally considered possible. She called it The Sight. No-one questioned it. Whether that was because no-one was brave enough to, or just that people were smart enough to leave well enough alone where Tante Mattie's secret ways were concerned . . . well. That was up for debate.

"It's a girl," Henri said offhandedly to his mug as he picked it up, an act that only seemed to flabbergast Emil further.

"What?"

"It's completely and totally some girl that's got him messed up."

Remy raised an eyebrow.

"And how would you know?"

"You're gettin' way too defensive, for one. You're doin' more listening than talking, and you're giving more of a damn about Mercy than I am," he listed, counting the points off on the fingers of his left hand as he spoke them. "Remy, gimmie some credit here. I been your brother for how many years now? It's my job to notice that kinda crap."

What exactly could he say to that? He gave an out-of-place shrug that didn't really mean anything. Henri pushed on.

"So who is she?"

Remy rubbed at his forehead with the palm of his hand, trying to relieve the slight pressure building up there and failing spectacularly.

"Shit."

Henri tossed him the seemingly now communal package of cigarettes after tucking the recently extinguished one inside, and he caught it without thought.

"Light up. Tell us about it."

Remy turned the package over and over in his hands, feeling out the edges and the familiarity as the other two waited expectantly.

"Shit," he repeated for good measure, pulling one out and snagging the lighter from over by Emil, who just grinned.

"That bad, huh?"

Remy was pretty sure there was more than a little bitterness in his chuckle.

"You got no idea."

xXx

It took until he was left with no more than a smouldering filter in his hand to bring them up to speed.

"I have a question," Emil announced, pointing towards Remy with what was left of his own cigarette. "How have you not exploded from all this unresolved sexual tension yet?"

Henri gave an exasperated sigh that prompted Emil to continue.

"No, I'm serious. That's gotta violate some law of physics somewhere."

Remy considered charging up the remains of his smoke and throwing it at him.

"I'm more interested in what the hell's up with this Drake guy, myself," Henri said, running his index finger over the handle of his mug. "Assholes like that . . ."

His distaste and the threat he'd left unfinished filled the air that he'd left silent. Remy gave an affirmative murmur that was accompanied by a matching one from Emil.

It was Henri who ended up asking the question Remy had spent the last couple days trying to broach.

"So what are you going to do?"

He was no closer to the answer now than he had been back when he'd first forced the question upon himself. Emil answered first though, offering his two cents as he dropped the still smoking end of his own cigarette in to the ashtray.

"Making Mister Drake disappear without a trace seems like a good place to start."

Remy spent a split-second too long for his own comfort looking at this as a good idea.

"I was thinking more along the lines of finally confronting her or something."  
His cousin looked almost disappointed.

"Well, that works too."

The ring of a cell phone distracted Henri from the conversation. Pulling out a small, black thing that was barely thicker than a credit card, he flipped it open and listened attentively.

"Got it."

With just two words spoken, he closed the phone and tucked it away.

"Emil and I gotta get our asses in gear."

There was a groan from Emil at this as he straightened up in his chair.

"Tell me I don't have to wear that stupid body armour again. Please."

"I won't tell you then."

Emil muttered something under his breath about there being a special circle of hell for wiseasses, his left hand moving in a quick, sharp gesture that one didn't have to be familiar with to recognize as offensive in intent.

"If I say you can drive, will that ease your wounded pride?"

"Pride, yeah. What about my poor, wounded masculinity though?"

"This from a guy in girl's jeans?" Remy quipped.

"Pink body armour, guys. Throw me a bone here."

Henri snickered, digging in to his pocket and pulling out a beat-up leather keychain.

"You can pick the radio station," he said, dangling the keys in front of Emil like a carrot, who took them and bounded around to the back of the coffee shop, presumably to bring the car around before Henri had a chance to change his mind.

"Did I bitch that much when I started wearing it?" Remy asked, incredulous.

"Yeah. You did. So did I. Pretty sure it's a rite of passage or somethin'."

They shared a laugh as they stood up and started towards where they'd left the car. Once the laughter worked itself out, Henri's face went serious.

"With the Rogue girl -- this talk or action?" he asked pointedly.

"Been asking myself the same thing, Henri."  
The dissatisfied look that his brother gave him could have just as easily come from their father.

"What was it Emil said about hell and wiseasses?"

Remy sighed.

This was exactly what he didn't want to be confronted with, because as stupid as it sounded, he didn't know what the hell it was 'with this Rogue girl'. He knew what he thought he wanted, didn't he? He wanted Rogue to look past Drake and at him. He wanted to have a chance with her, to have the opportunity to show her that contrary to whatever it was she thought that maybe, just maybe, she deserved something more than a cheater.

It had been all failure and confusion so far. His attempts and his feelings were a badly tangled ball of yarn – all knots, waiting to be smoothed out so it could actually have the potential to be something other just yarn.

Romantic limbo as represented by carded, strung, and coloured sheep's wool.

He would have laughed his ass off at the absurdity of it had he found it at all funny.

Henri stood there, waiting impatiently and looking as though he was ready to start tapping his foot.

"Talk or action, Remy. Pick."

When it came down to it then, perhaps this was just what he needed to get at those knots. To be pushed in to doing it, consequences be damned.

The words felt like the kind that should have echoed through a cavern somewhere. They didn't. They just reached Remy's ears, falling flat as he heard them, though retaining the directness that Henri had imbued them with.

"I know she doesn't have any classes tomorrow. I'll go catch her then, see what happens."

"If you chicken out, you know I'm never gonna let you live it down, right?"

"Yeah. I know."

"Good. Let's get you back to your school. And hey," he added as they came up to the car, where Emil sat in the driver's seat, messing around with the radio dials. "With a little luck, maybe we'll get there in one piece."


	11. Going Down

**TITLE: **I Get By

**SUMMARY: **After being rescued by an unlikely classmate, things get complicated.

**CHARACTERS: **Sam, Marie, Emma, Doctor McCoy

**RATING: **T

**WARNINGS: **Sam humiliation, and men in tights.

**DISCLAIMER: **I, LithiumAddict, a.k.a. Percy O'Leary, am not in any way shape or form connected to Marvel Comics, Fox Entertainment, or any other related group. I therefore do not own any of the characters represented here. This is fan-fiction, and a labour of love on my part and in no way an intention to undermine the previously mentioned organizations or their intellectual property.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **Anything specific about this chapter that you need to know? Nothing really, other than I really do love Sam, despite what my treatment of him might suggest.

Apologies in advance for the lack of Remy. Does it make it better that the next chapter will detail the confrontation promised in chapter 10?

* * *

Sam was quickly developing an irrational dislike of second hand stores.

Okay, so maybe that was an overstatement. If one wanted to be precise, which Sam figured was the case here, he was quickly developing an irrational dislike of this particular second hand store.

There was the horrible music, for starters. It was what any music store would refer to as 'easy listening', but really just reminded him of awkward Sunday dinners at his grandmother's back home; most assuredly NOT a good thing.

He was also getting kind of weirded out by some of the clothes he was seeing, and trying to come to terms with the fact that they had actually been worn by someone at some point in time.

Plus, it smelled funny. He would have put money on something having died a couple aisles over not too long ago.

He checked his watch before shooting a longing glance towards the front door.

"Do you think this is Shakespearean enough?" Marie asked, holding up an especially ugly shirt with more poofs and puffs that Sam would have imagined possible to contain in such a small space.

"How do you tell?"

She made a face – he hoped it was at the shirt – and put it back on the rack before continuing to flit through its companions. Sam, in the meantime, poked awkwardly at a large, ugly blouse in a loud floral print that he was sure was listed in the Bible somewhere as an abomination unto the Lord. He wondered if he ought to fear being swallowed alive by it. The thing looked hungry, and just desperate enough to try something.

Rational thought said no. It was just a shirt; nothing but cloth and stitching, however dubious the taste. Sam took a couple steps away anyhow. No harm in being careful.

This resulted in him tripping over a questionably located pair of boots that he was certain hadn't been there a few seconds ago. Arms flailing, he fell backwards in to more shirts, catching his balance on their rack with one hand and yanking down hard on yet another white woman's blouse with the other.

No ripping sound came (thank God), but he decided to inspect it anyway just to be safe. All seemed well, and he started to put it back when Marie noticed what he was holding.

"Perfect," Marie smiled, taking it from his hands and dropping it in to the full basket slung over her left forearm. "That's everything then. Except the tights."

_Groaning is the Sam-killer, _he reminded himself as temptation to do so set in. He chose instead to kick the boots that he'd managed to fall over. He pretended for a moment that it was their fault he was in this mess, and felt marginally better.

"I don't suppose there's any way to talk you out of that part of the costume, is there?"

Marie picked through her basket, presumably double checking that they did indeed have everything . . . except the tights. Her answer was, therefore, somewhat distracted.

"We're going for authenticity, Sam."

Sam would have responded with an explanation of how he was very willing to sacrifice marks for authenticity in favour of self-respect, especially when he had it in such short supply these days, but Marie had looked up from her basket to give him that uncomfortable look that he was learning not to argue with.

"Okay," he sighed, conceding. "Tights it is."

"You're such a trooper," she beamed, starting for the checkout. Sam, ever the gentleman, caught up with her and made to take the basket from her with one hand while digging his wallet out from his back pocket with the other.

"A trooper who has to stand in front of everyone in tights."

"For what it's worth," she replied, relinquishing the basket with a wry quirk of her mouth, "I think it takes guts to do something like this."

Sam managed to pull a feeble smile out from somewhere as they unloaded all of their items at the till.

"My flagging self-esteem thanks you."

"Nice pick," the sales associate said as he held up the blouse, the comment directed at Marie. "This'll look great on you."

Sam blushed crimson.

Marie looked as though she was making a valiant effort not to howl with laughter.

xXx

Forty minutes and a stop at a department store later, Sam and Marie stood in their English classroom – thankfully, _thankfully_ empty – feeling out their costumes with the intent to rehearse.

Sam, for his part, didn't think that the poofy shirt and tights he now wore was much of a step up from his Xavier-sanctioned uniform. He felt like a dip, and was desperately missing the track pants he'd been wearing earlier.

Marie adjusted the bodice of the dress they'd been lucky enough to find somewhere near a rack of abandoned bridesmaid dresses. She looked unhappy with what she was seeing.

"Didn't this fit properly back at the store?"

"Jubilee sews, doesn't she? You could bribe her."

"I couldn't afford it. She'll want me to cover for her when she goes off on one of her late-night adventures, and I've already yelled at her too much about them to give in like that."

"Principled stand, huh?"

"Something like that," she frowned down at the dress, adjusting the way it rested on her shoulders. The result didn't seem to please her, but she looked prepared to accept it anyway. "It'll have to do."

Sam, throughout this conversation, had been picking at his tights and trying to figure out how the hell he would get through this without becoming a target of undue mockery. He was coming up with precisely no idea at all.

A knock at the doorframe kept him from getting any further along with this train of thought. Standing there in the open door was Emma Frost, the girl he sat a table behind and to the left of in Biology, and had narrowly missed ending up in the same lab group with. According to Sam's understanding, this was most decidedly a good thing. He'd heard stories about Emma.

"Hey Marie," she greeted. "You doing any better?"

Marie chuckled, ignoring the dress for now.

"Getting by."

Apparently, there was a history between the two girls that Sam was unaware of. He wondered at what it might be, and then at if he actually wanted to know. No answer was apparent either way.

Hold on, he puzzled to himself. Hadn't he closed the door behind him? And didn't closed doors generally mean _please, for the love of God, keep out?_

Emma walked on in, shutting the door and leaning against a nearby desk.

"Doctor McCoy's English assignment, huh?"

"Yeah," Marie said, and Sam found himself thankful that she was handling the whole conversation thing here. Being walked in on while in costume had NOT been part of the plan here, and he highly doubted that he'd have been able to respond to this situation with the kind of comfort and grace that Marie was managing.

Of course, she was not in a woman's blouse and tights. This may have had something to do with it.

Emma looked both of them up and down in a rather leisurely manner, though only addressing Sam once she'd finished.

"Nice outfit."

He was having a hard time determining if she was being sarcastic or not. Responding was probably a bad idea, since he'd probably judge wrong, say the wrong thing, and end up in a world of trouble for the effort. He just tugged at the cuffs of his shirt and tried to think happy thoughts. Like normal pants.

Seemingly in ignorance of Sam's discomfort (because there was no way she wasn't noticing it – not only was she a psychic, Sam wasn't good at hiding that sort of thing in the first place), Emma took a seat.

"So tell me what I'm watching here."

Marie took it upon herself to explain, smoothing out the front of her dress as she did so. This confused Sam, as he had missed the part where Emma had been given permission to stay, let alone watch.

"We're Hamlet and Ophelia, before the events of the play. It's supposed to be a character sketch, since it's removed from the actual plot. We're just trying to rehearse."

Emma nodded, reclining back in the chair she'd commandeered and smiling that peculiar smile of hers that all psychics apparently came equipped with. Sam suddenly felt the need to fidget profusely.

"By all means, rehearse. Don't let me stop you."

"We could use the feedback," Marie said, more to Sam than to Emma. At least she had noticed and cared about his anxiety. For that small expression of care, he was now honour-bound to reciprocate. Damn that stupid conscience of his, and the principles that went with it.

"Okay," he said, turning to Emma. "But save the laughs 'til we're done, please?"

"I'm sure it's not that bad," she replied.

Marie gave Sam a gentle hip-check.

"It's _not. _Sam's just overly self-conscious."

"I hadn't guessed."

Emma's amusement shone through, and Sam found himself yet again wishing for a hole to crawl in to. How many times did that make this week alone? He'd started a tally, actually, but the sheet was up in his room. If he remembered correctly, this would make fifteen in half as many days.

"Can we do this, please, before my self-respect goes any further down the toilet?"

The two 'actors' took their places on the 'stage', and Sam did his best to take a deep breath before they launched in to the blocking they'd worked out a couple days ago. Marie walked to the center of their performing space, and then waited. He approached, and it began.

Marie put a hand to his cheek while saying the lines they'd written, just like they'd worked out. Ophelia and Hamlet had originally been close, after all, and the gesture had seemed appropriate. Sam didn't really hear her lines, as he was desperately trying to remember the next ones he'd have to speak. Something to do with trees, maybe? Or was it that whole extended metaphor they'd worked out – the one about birds and cages? Dammit, he should have gone over them one more time last night before he'd crashed . . .

It was precisely then that he realized something was very, very wrong. Feeling like your brains were being sucked out was not a normal sensation by anyone's standards.

Sam started to gasp for air, his body going slack without permission.

_Hey, _he tried to scream at himself. _Stop that! Stop it!_

No noise came. He could feel his mouth opening and closing to form the words, and yet none managed to escape as he dropped to his knees and collapsed to the floor.

He heard Marie shriek. The sound was far away, hardly there at all.

"Sam! SAM!"

_Is this what dying's like?_

Considering how friggin' wrong this felt, he was willing to bet so. He waited for his life to flash before his eyes – that was what was supposed to happen here, right? -- but there was nothing; just the sensation of being slowly emptied.

As his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he was engulfed by the dark, he came to the conclusion that it absolutely figured he couldn't even get this whole dying thing right.

xXx

_A door bursts open._

"_It's customary to knock, Miss Frost."_

"_Sam is unconscious, Marie needs a sedative, and I'm about to have the psychic migraine of the century. Do you forgive me?"_

_A book closes._

_A man rises. _

_A pair runs to another room._

"_I didn't mean to hurt him! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Oh, God, I'm sorry!"_

"_Miss Frost, try and calm her down while I see to our patient."_

_A struggle._

"_DON'T TOUCH ME!"_

"_Easy, Marie."_

"_I SAID DON'T TOUCH ME!"_

_A psychic command is sent._

"_I said __easy.__"_

_A body slumps to the ground._

_A sob._

"_Can you tell me exactly what happened here?"_

"_They were rehearsing their scene for English. She touched him, and he went down."_

"_Touched? That's all?"_

"_Yes. That's all."_

"_You're sure of this?"_

_A sigh._

"_With all due respect, sir, might I ask why you think I'd lie?"_

_A pause._

"_Emma, I need you to go fetch Storm right now. We may have a problem on our hands."_

xXx

When Sam woke, he was momentarily blinded by bright fluorescent lights. His first coherent thought was that fluorescent lights were a pain in the ass. Or quite possibly the head. The second was that he was not dead, which, honestly, came as the larger surprise.

He blinked a few times, the act of seeing becoming easier as he did so and finally coming to the conclusion that he had lived to see another day.

Sam questioned if he were disappointed by this, and found it was not so.

There may even have been some smiling as he attempted to sit up and gauge his surroundings, but he was too busy groaning (and failing horribly at the whole process of sitting up while doing so) to notice.

"Sam?"

"Urpmh?" he replied, collapsing down on what he figured was a bed. Looking to the voice resulted in him determining he was in the med lab, and that a very tall, blonde girl was seated in a chair tucked away in the far corner.

"You're awake. Good."

"Emma?"

"Perceptive too. Even better."

"What're you doing here?"

Rising from her seat, Emma strode across the room and tucked her hands in her back pockets. She spoke lazily, stopping at his bedside and looking down at him with what could have been either an amused smile, or sarcastic leer.

"Doctor McCoy asked me to stick around, make sure you're still with us. He wanted me to keep an eye on your mind, since that's what Marie's powers target. Something about psychic monitoring being better than machines in this situation."

She shrugged, pausing a few paces away from the bed itself to look him over. "I didn't really have anything better to do, so I figured why the hell not."

As she'd spoken, Sam had managed to prop his pillows and brace himself against them so he could worm his way up them to a sitting position.

"I'm touched."

"Lying doesn't become you, Sam."

Sam found himself rather disliking the fact that he was so easy to see through. In order to avert further discomfort, he changed the subject.

"Marie's powers – they're back?"

He'd only heard stories about what Marie was capable of, mainly from the students who had been around back when she had first shown up at the mansion. A good deal of them were on the disconcerting side. There had been one about her sneaking into Wolverine's room late one night, and getting run through with his claws for it, but living to tell the tale (well, she herself didn't tell the tale – that was the job of people like Jubilee and Theresa) only because she'd touched him and lifted his healing factor for a while.

"It looks that way. Doctor McCoy and Storm are talking with her right now."

Had he the energy, Sam would have shivered.

"So what does this mean?"

Emma was thoughtful for a moment.

"If her powers really are back, it means she's going to have to go back to covering up again. She may want to get back on the roster again too, or at least put in the Danger Room session line-up with us New Recruits. Other than that, who knows?"

"She's alright though."

Emma nodded.

"She had your green eyes for a little while, but they went away fairly fast. Last I saw, she was pretty worked up, but Storm was talking her down as best she could."

The image of Storm as a nurturing mother-figure was a little weird, but ever since that Danger Room session and the Gambit debacle where she'd let Sam off scot-free, he was willing to accept that anything was possible.

The sound of a throat clearing drew the attention of both Emma and Sam. Marie had somehow entered the room without them noticing, and had taken up residence in the corner. The first thing Sam noticed about her was her hands – they were hidden in a pair of long gloves.

"I'll leave you two alone."

There one moment, and gone the next, Emma's voice seemed to hang in the air long after she'd made herself scarce. Once it dissipated, or perhaps even a little before, Marie spoke.

"You're okay?"

Sam nodded quickly in response to her slight murmur, but nothing in Marie's carriage changed. She still stood with arms crossed and curled in on herself looking like she was one startled moment away from bolting. Perhaps if he nodded again, but used words this time . . .

She spoke again, her voice a little stronger this time, though not by much.

"Doctor McCoy said he'd let you out of the medlab once you were awake and he'd had a chance to check you over."

The urge to squirm was strong. The urge to speak encouraging words was stronger, though not by much.

"That's good."

For all his kind effort to talk in a way that wouldn't frighten Marie off, the words had come out sounding phony. Even he, who his sister Paige had once dubbed 'Mister Clueless', could see that. Something more was needed here to make this, whatever it was, okay.

_Say something funny. Say something funny. For the love of Frank Herbert, Sam, say something funny. _

"At least we'll probably get an extension on that performance, huh?"

The pursed lips and shining eyes – oh _crap, _he'd made her cry – made him instantly sorry that he'd even bothered to open his mouth.

That? That hadn't been funny at all. That had been stupid, and he doubted he could shove his foot any further in to his mouth even if he tried.

Sam hung his head, mumbling a tricky apology that managed to get stuck along the way and had to be forced out between his tongue and his teeth. He needn't have bothered though, as he found out once he managed to look up again. Marie had left.


	12. Shaken Up

**TITLE: **I Get By

**SUMMARY: **After being rescued by an unlikely classmate, things get complicated.

**CHARACTERS: **Marie, Remy, Bobby.

**RATING: **T**  
**

**WARNINGS: **

**DISCLAIMER: **I, LithiumAddict, a.k.a. Percy O'Leary, am not in any way shape or form connected to Marvel Comics, Fox Entertainment, or any other related group. I therefore do not own any of the characters represented here. This is fan-fiction, and a labour of love on my part and in no way an intention to undermine the previously mentioned organizations or their intellectual property.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **You may not know it yet, but there's actually an overarching plot coming. (SHOCK! AWE! SAY IT AIN'T SO!) It's been hinted at throughout the story thus far, and it's about time to bring it to fruition. This chapter serves as something of a door, taking us from the first few plot threads – the introduction of the cast/general setting of the stage, the disintegration of Bobby and Rogue's relationship, the developing relationship between Rogue and Remy, the return of Rogue's powers…and the one plot thread that I've been attempting to weave smoothly throughout the story so far. A couple of you have picked up on it, but I'm not saying who or what right now. The next couple chapters are going to bring everything in to focus.

My apologies for how long it's been between updates. This chapter has been a long time coming. Cheers to you all for being so understanding about my not being able to keep to a regular schedule for updates due to school (and my own writing habits, but that's a whole other story). I'm on summer break right now though, with a pretty slack work schedule, so I'm hoping to punch out at least a few chapters before September rolls around. For now though, enjoy chapter twelve, and we'll see you around.

* * *

Marie's flight from the medlab to her room was a blur of tears and the taste of blood from a bottom lip bit down on too forcefully. She didn't know if she slammed her door behind her or not, or if she'd bothered to kick off her shoes before curling up in the fetal position on her bed.

Had she figured this would happen?

Marie certainly wanted to believe that at least a small part of her had seen it coming, that even in some small way she'd recognized from the beginning that this was all too good to be true. There should have been something, even if just some nagging feeling at the back of her mind that perhaps she had been overlooking an inevitable outcome.

There had been nothing.

She'd fully and completely believed in the Cure and all that it meant – freedom from her powers, a choice in how she wanted to live her life. _Normalcy._

So she'd gone to the clinic, stood in line like her elementary school teachers had taught her, ignored the protestors, and gotten the shot. She'd walked in a mutant incapable of physical contact, and walked out a girl just like any other. It had been a gift from God.

Then that broken part of her, that genetic screw-up she thought she'd gotten rid of for good, had boomeranged right back at her with a vengeance, and left her right back where she'd started.

Apparently, the god who'd decided to bless her with the Cure was one of the petty, vindictive variety.

Now? Now she was lying on her bed, curled in on herself and crying for that normalcy she'd gained and lost, and that evidently was never meant for her.

As she lay there feeling sorry for herself, the door creaked open.

"Rogue?"  
The voice was Remy's.

She sat up with an incredibly unattractive sniff, and an amount of concern that would have either moved or frightened her at any other time marked his face.

"What's wrong?"

She wiped at her eyes and ran her hand along her cheekbones to get rid of the tears that had managed to get that far. Her focus went to the open door he'd left behind him before falling to her feet. She didn't have the strength to look him, or anyone else, in the eye right now.

She wondered morosely if she ever would.

"My--" she started, losing her train of thought to a hiccup-like sob. Her face and her hands soon met, her body back to shaking in the erratic rhythm of hysterics.

God, how pathetic was she? She couldn't even bring herself to _say_ what had happened, never mind facing up to it. Of course, she'd eventually have to do that too, but at this moment she felt incapable, impotent, and overwhelmed.

When she felt him sit down on the bed next to her, an instinct she wished she'd never developed kicked in. Adrenaline that found its root in panic surging through her system, she threw herself to the far side of the bed and away from him, huddling at the far left side where two of her bedroom's walls met.

"Stay back!"

To her own ears, she sounded positively feral. Considering that she had backed herself in to a corner like some injured animal, the comparison felt appropriate. Emma's _I said __easy_ from earlier echoed through her head, giving even further credence to it.

Remy looked confused, raising his hands in a gesture of compliance as he shifted away from her by about a foot, leaving him at the opposite end of her bed.

"Rogue, what the hell's wrong?"

A tense moment passed before Marie was able to calm down enough to speak. Arms wrapped around herself, she swallowed (was it supposed to be that painful, or was she imagining things?) and tried to come up with the words to say. What she ended up deciding upon was decidedly brusque, but dragging it out would have been salt in the wound.

"The Cure failed."

She didn't so much see his dawning comprehension as feel it. It stung.

"Your powers…"

"Are back. Yeah."

If experience was any teacher, she figured that this was the point where he'd start backing away even further out of concern for his own safety. He lowered his hands, looked, but didn't back away. He remained there at the edge of the bed with his thoughts for a good minute or so as she tried to steady herself.

His next question was the obvious one, and came as an interruption of her own thought process.

"How'd it happen?"

"Practicing that stupid scene for English with Sam. I…" Her hands became fists as she gulped down the shame and the hurt. "He's in the medlab, and finally conscious again."

A sober nod came before a careful question.

"You're okay though?"

She snorted, and he looked away in mild embarrassment.

"Sorry. Stupid question."

She shrugged, preoccupied with fingering at the hem of her gloves, pulling them up even though they hadn't slipped down at all as he tried again.

"What did Doctor McCoy say?"

Repetition. She could do that. Regurgitating what the good Doctor had said gave her something to focus on.

"He says that my powers aren't back completely; it's a slow onset. The whole thing's a waiting game now – he figures give or take twenty-four hours, they'll be just as strong as they were before I took the Cure."

Silence came as she concluded, weighty with significance.

"You scared?"

She nodded, unable to will her mouth to say the _yeah, shitless _that was on her mind. He responded in kind, his nod one of quiet sympathy. He swallowed, leaning forward off the bed and resting his elbows on his knees as he examined something on the ground.

"M'not gonna pretend my situation's anything like yours," he said softly, "But I think I know where you're comin' from."

She said nothing, and didn't have to either. The expression on her face showed just how unwilling she was to accept what he had said. She highly doubted that there was any way anyone could know where she was coming from. He glanced up only long enough to catch this, returning his eyes almost instantaneously to the ground.

"When I first manifested, I ended up blowing a lot of stuff up," he began, voice strained and gravel-dry. "Couldn't touch anything without it exploding in my face. Not food, not clothes, nothing. Didn't touch people for a while either, since I didn't wanna risk doing to them what I seemed to be doing to everythin' else.

"I had nightmares where I'd end up killing people by touching them. Or I'd be at funerals, where there was nothing but charcoal in the coffin and I'd jus' _know _it was my fault. They scared the living shit out of me."

Marie remained silent in her corner, but beginning to understand why he was sharing this very personal part of himself with her, and finding herself honoured that he was. What was inspiring this confessional mood?

He continued to speak, though the story came out more slowly now.

"I remember standing out on the back lawn of my family's house one night, starving and screaming my lungs out. I stood there, cursing anyone and anything I could think of 'cause I was so angry at the world.

"Point is, I been there. Nothin' I say's gonna change the fact that it hurts like a bitch, and that it's as close to hell as y'get here on earth. I get that. What I know is that you can rise above it, control or no. You let it control you, let it tell you what you can and can't do, then you let that hell win. You gotta be stronger than that, or it's just gonna swallow you. And I…" He looked up at her here, taking a moment to weigh his words. "I know you are."

"Thank you," she whispered after taking some time to take it all in. What else could she say to that sort of faith, especially when she didn't have it in herself?

Remy opened his mouth to answer through a gentle smile, but was interrupted by a voice from the still-open door.

"Marie?"

It was Bobby.

Remy glared, getting up off the bed and making to leave in less than a second.

"You don't have to--"

"S'alright."

His curtness was a stark contrast to the openness he'd just displayed with her. Marie knew that this sudden change was in response to Bobby's presence – all her previous conversations with Remy had indicated he didn't much care for him – but despite the knowledge, it still hurt. It still felt a little like rejection, especially after what he'd shared with her. She held her tongue though, imagining it for the best not to push anything right now.

Remy, in the meantime, took the two steps over to her desk. He grabbed a pen and one of the blank index cards Marie kept there, scribbled something down, and left both the card and the ballpoint pen sitting there.

"Later," he offered, an abrupt goodbye bit out as he abandoned the desk. Remy then left the room, pushing past Bobby with what was probably unnecessary roughness. He closed the door behind him, forcing Bobby to move further inside with an awkward sidestep.

He looked like he wanted to say something in reaction, but looked to Marie and seemed to think better of it. Thank goodness he was at least _that_ thoughtful -- she wasn't sure if she'd have been able to handle him talking about Remy right now.

Bobby then crossed the room and sat down on the bed next to her. She cringed away out of stupid, ingrained habit that she was slipping in to far too easily for her liking. She supposed it was for the best though; those good old defence mechanisms she thought she'd left behind in the clinic were going to come in handy now that things had taken this turn. If Bobby had noticed this, he didn't say.

"Ororo told me about what happened," he finally said. "I…"

The pause that followed was probably one of the most uncomfortable experiences of Marie's life. It sat there in the scant few feet between them, all but a physical weight that separated them. It wasn't just the Cure. It was all the little things that had been growing and festering – the Cure, Kitty, Remy, and the laundry list of other things that were screwing them up and screwing them over.

"I'm sorry," Bobby finished.

"For what?" she asked, that damned _maybe _still teasing her despite the intellectual knowledge that they were, in all but name, over.

There was a part of her though, a stupid, frustrating part of her, that wanted to believe those two little words he'd spoken were meant to cover everything between them: his cheating, her powers, and the whole grand mess that was the two of them. That maybe there was something left there for her. That maybe there was a chance he'd give up Kitty and they could go back to being the way they had been before.

Her memory chose this particular second to bring one particular image to brilliant life.

_The two of them are sprawled out in the Blackbird, frightened and alone. They are convulsing in pain, hurting so badly that it feels like the world is coming to an end. Amidst the pain and the jerking, he reaches for her hand and takes it like it is the only thing he has left. She looks at him, scared out of her mind and in absolute agony. His grip tightens on her, and she grips back. _

_In that moment, they are more together than they have ever been before._

Or ever will be again, she realized as it faded away in to whatever recesses of her mind it came from. As she recovered from the memory, bringing herself back in to the real world, Bobby replied to her question.

"This. Everything."

It was the right thing to say. It's what she'd been waiting to hear.

It's what she had wanted to hear ever since that night she watched him and Kitty at the fountain through her bedroom window.

Wasn't she supposed to be happy with this? She'd finally gotten what she'd been looking for.

And yet she couldn't bring herself to fully believe it, regardless of desire. It was a little late for half-hearted apologies and she was willing to bet that Bobby knew it too. Had there been room to do so, she would have shuffled even further away from him. Since she was already in the corner, she curled up a little more in to herself instead. It had the intended effect of increasing the separation between them.

"I'd like to be alone now, please."

He didn't say anything, for which she was thankful, and rose off the bed. Marie couldn't bring herself to watch as he walked out the door. She didn't trust her own self-control, and was afraid that when it counted most, she'd give in and call out to him, call him back. She looked at her feet, her teeth clamping together hard inside her mouth to keep herself from speaking.

Once a sufficient amount of time had passed, and likely more than a few tears had fallen, she finally allowed herself to raise her head once more.

Alone, and therefore safe, she looked over to her desk and the little index card that Remy had written on before storming out. She reached for the card, lifting it up off the desk and bringing it close enough to read through her bleary eyes. In a boxy hand that she recognized from those notes in the backseat of Remy's car, a short message had been scrawled:

_Tomorrow. Front green. 11:00 am._


	13. Small Crimes

**TITLE: **I Get By

**SUMMARY: **After being rescued by an unlikely classmate, things get complicated.

**CHARACTERS: **Bobby, Kitty, Emma, Peter

**RATING: **T

**WARNINGS: **Mild to moderate language and discussions of infidelity.

**DISCLAIMER: **I, LithiumAddict, a.k.a. Percy O'Leary, am not in any way shape or form connected to Marvel Comics, Fox Entertainment, or any other related group. I therefore do not own any of the characters represented here. This is fan-fiction, and a labour of love on my part and in no way an intention to undermine the previously mentioned organizations or their intellectual property.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **It's becoming something of a pattern for me to put off all the good stuff between Remy and Marie in this story to explore less interesting, but just as crucial stuff. Guess what folks? It's happening again. No meeting on the front green . . . yet. Don't hate me though; I have _reasons._ I felt that with Remy and Marie kind-of, sort-of starting to figure things out with one another, it's time to take a look at another couple.

* * *

There were a couple reviews that finally convinced me a chapter dealing with Kitty and Bobby was necessary -- my thanks to Katt and Ms. Arano specifically for this. Kitty!Muse came out of nowhere and rose to the occasion brilliantly, reminding me that while cheating is never pretty, it's rarely, if _ever_ as easy as "the cheater and the other woman are always assholes" either_._ I suppose she deserves thanks for that. Both she and I are curious as to how all of you respond to this, and hope you enjoy.

Ethics now done and over with– another battle against that insipid Pryde girl lost and won at the same time – Emma left the classroom with every intention of taking it easy for what remained of the day. Since Ethics had been bright and early and she had no other classes today, this left a considerable amount of time between now and dinner. Plans were already developing to take off to town and shop for a while. The time it would take her to get there would be a small price to pay for getting away from the mansion, and if she worked it right she'd even miss the brunt of the traffic on her way back.

Plus, she reflected while making for her room, she could use a new pair of shoes.

It was as this plot ran through her head that Katherine passed her, and Emma was reminded yet again of what a bitch it was to be a telepath sometimes.

She wasn't picking up on any coherent words, just a general sense of frustration. This was hardly unexpected considering the class they'd just come from, and the near catfight that had ensued between the two of them over the use of the term 'mutie' within the mutant community and the concept of reclamation. The frustration was nothing. It was the underlying fear and nervousness that attracted Emma's attention. For all the issues that she had with Katherine, she had to give credit where credit was due: the girl was confident by nature, which made this fear feel incredibly out of place. Focusing, she tried to tune her psychic radar so as to pick up a little more, but was met only with a thick wall of agitation and apprehension.

This roadblock only served to stoke Emma's curiosity (in actuality, it was really just irritating her, and Lord knew she hated that, but claiming curiosity sounded a little less conceited), and the burning desire to know what the hell was going on grew only stronger as Katherine made a left turn at the end of the hall, heading towards the computer lab.

Emma glanced at the clock on the wall, wondering if putting off her shopping trip for a little while would be worth seeing what Katherine was up to. Lips twisting upwards in a smirk that could easily have been associated with sharks or other predators, she determined that she had the time to be a little meddlesome.

A short walk brought Emma to the lab just as Katherine was going in. Emma wasn't going to risk following the girl in to the lab itself, but something as small as that certainly wasn't going to keep her from staying informed. Siding up to the door, Emma resisted the impulse to press her ear to it. That would have been a little _too_ gauche, even in the face of her current actions of questionable discernment.

"Hey," Katherine said, barely loud enough for Emma to hear with her physical ears. No matter though; there were ways of getting around that. The thing about telepaths was that doors did little to keep them out if they wanted to get in.

Launching herself on to the psychic plane, things became much clearer. Swimming through the bad LSD trip of colour and sensation, she found her consciousness present in the room with Katherine. There was only one other person in the room with her, and a stray thought – _what're you doing here, Kit? – _identified him.

It was Bobby; no-one else shortened Katherine's that way.

He was radiating a soft grey indifference as he played some mindless first-person shooter. Katherine, however, was a shifting rainbow of confusion that had Emma _had _a head right now, would have induced a headache of epic proportions.

_Angry. Sad. Cold. Hot. Lost._

"Hey," Bobby replied, a brief flash of bitter gall streaking orange through the grey. He had, presumably, lost a round of his game. It was either that, or Katherine's entry to the room that had caused this, but Emma wasn't going to place any bets just yet. That grey shroud of apathy was making it unclear, making either option quite possible.

"You skipped Ethics."

It wasn't accusatory. Just a statement of fact that hinted at a _why _Katherine chose to leave unspoken. Emma thought back briefly and realized that Bobby had indeed been missing from class this morning. She caught herself wondering at the reasons why just as strongly as Katherine was, if not more.

"Yeah. I know. I'm gonna get the lecture first thing next time for it too."

"Can't say I'm jealous." There was a pause – _give him a second or two and maybe he'll tell me why -- _before that why she'd been biting down on made its way out.

"Was there a good reason for it, or did you just feel the overwhelming need to pump virtual lead in to lovingly rendered 3D polygons?"  
Based on Emma's knowledge of Bobby's character, this ought to have elicited a snort at the very least. What it got was nothing, which was curious enough in itself. Even more curious was his eventual answer.

"I just went to go talk to Marie. Her powers came back, and I wanted to make sure she was okay. It . . . " A sigh accompanied him pausing his game, or so the sudden lack of background noise indicated. "It didn't go so good."

Katherine's inner voice boomed across the psychic plane in a blast of cobalt blue melting in to steel grey.

_Say it. Say it now or you never will._

"It's kinda her I want to talk to you about."

The grey around Bobby shifted to attentive white, and a cautious yellow wended its way through in response to something in Katherine's tone.

"What's up?"

Emma was distantly aware of the sound of a shifting chair being processed by her physical body. Bobby had turned his seat so he was facing Katherine now.

"Everything okay, Kitty?"

Textbooks were dropped on the desk and ass hit chair in time with a slow, steady increase of discomfort, awkwardness, and dread on Katherine's part.

"You said it didn't go so good. What's that mean?"

A degree of suspicion was present in his reply. _That's not an answer to my question, _he thought.

"I think we've broken up," he said.

"You _think._"

"There wasn't a 'we should see other people' or an 'it's not you, it's me', if that's what you mean. She just kicked me out of her room and I'm pretty sure I'm not welcome there anymore."

Well, well, well, Emma smiled to herself. This was news. She offered up a silent _'atta girl_ on Marie's behalf.

"So…" Katherine began carefully, a tiny swell of pale pink hope daring to rear its head. "You guys are through?"

"I guess. Maybe. I don't know." The sound of chair legs scraping along linoleum floor covered a strange, throaty sort of noise he made calculated to express anxiety. "I'm not really sure how this all works, Kit."

"I know," came her quiet response. "It's just . . ."

That inner voice Emma had attributed to Katherine earlier spoke again, repeating itself even more loudly this time.

_Say it. Say it now._

Katherine did.

"I never meant to be the other woman, you know? It just _happened_. I like you Bobby. I like you a lot. I don't think any of this would have happened if I didn't. But people are saying shit about us. About me."

"What kind of stuff about us?" Bobby asked, far too concerned with the answer if Emma were any judge. Kitty, however, was far beyond hearing. On a verbal roll, she just kept going.

"And . . . and it's so stupid, but I think I've got it in my head that maybe if you and Marie are done, then maybe what we've got, whatever the hell it is, can be sort of legitimate."

A sensation of relief for having just having said her piece washed outward from Katherine, and might have swept Emma off her psychic feet had it not been followed by a wave of self-depreciating silence. That Emma understood. That she could navigate with relative ease.

Bobby's mouth in the meantime, started to open as the wheels in his head turned manically in his search for the right response to her confession.

_Legitimate? What does she . . . what kind of trash are people talking about us? Oh, god, what am I supposed to say to her now?_

Just as things were getting juicy, Emma felt another presence approaching. Of course, the heavy footsteps moving her way at an especially fast pace had been a bit of a hint too. She forced herself back in to the physical world only to take a few steps to the left and hide in a small corner. Slowing her breath down, and willing herself to go unseen, she watched as Peter burst down the hall and in to the lab. He left the door open, allowing Emma a decent view of what was going on inside. The two lovebirds both looked a little dumbstruck, like they were shocked to have been interrupted.

"Good. I found you guys. Storm wants you suited up and in the War Room _yesterday._"

Bobby and Kitty both stood up, their conversation apparently forgotten with the new development, whatever it might have been.

"What's the matter?" Kitty asked.

'Sardonic' was the only word coming to Emma's mind that fully described what was happening on Peter's face.

"It looks like Mister Summers might not be as dead as we thought."

Now _that _was an interesting development. Safe in her corner, hidden by shadows and her own sheer will, Emma allowed herself a downward turn of her mouth. Though 'Mister Summers' had been before her time, she knew that he had been a relatively well-liked teacher who had ended up dead during what was referred to by those who had been around then as 'The Phoenix Thing'.

What Emma knew of the whole debacle and in turn Mister Summers had been gleaned from stray memories and flitting thoughts from those with firsthand experience. No-one talked much – or at all, really; no point in beating around the bush – about what had happened or about those who had been lost. It remained a sore spot that people avoided so carefully that it had become obvious. Pictures had been taken down, starting a conversation on the topic was as large a taboo as one would find at Xavier's, and the only concrete proof that anything at all had happened was the small collection of the memorial stones on the back lawn.

Of course, this whole don't-ask-don't-tell-no-seriously-don't-you-dare mentality hadn't stopped people from thinking about it, and quite a lot. Thought being Emma's province of expertise, she'd been able to piece together a serviceable idea of what had occurred.

Doctor Jean Grey – a pretty, red-haired woman who had been the face of Xavier's to the outside world (not to mention a geneticist, teacher, fiancé of a fellow instructor, and general darling of all who came across her) ended up sacrificing herself in a last-ditch bid to get her comrades to safety. Said sacrifice, however, ended up being less permanent than originally assumed. Back with a vengeance and possessed by an alternate personality known as the Phoenix, she came, she killed, and wreaked general havoc on the world. Among the dead at her hands was Xavier himself, countless soldiers, and her fiancé, Scott Summers.

(Pity, really. Summers, at least according to the pictures she'd formed from others' recollections of him, hadn't been half-bad looking, or even a half-bad guy. Emma conveniently ignored the age difference, his marital status, and the small fact that he was dead during this assessment.)

Stopped only by Wolverine and the grace of whatever god that might have been listening that day, the Phoenix and Jean Grey were no more. There was nothing left behind in the Phoenix's wake. No bodies. Not even _parts _of bodies. Just knowledge that it had happened and memories of the fallen.

Back in real-time, Peter was still waiting for a reply. Bobby, of course, stepped up to the plate right away. He was already leaving the room as he jumped right in, Katherine close behind.

"What's the plan?"

"A briefing. That's all I know. I think Storm's trying to get a hold of Wolverine right now, wherever he is, and--"  
By this point, the three of them were down the hall and their voices had faded with the distance.

"Hmmm," Emma hummed to herself, mulling over all that she had just heard. A shopping trip truly was in order now. A lot of new and shiny information had just presented itself to her, and the drive in to town was just the thing she would need to work through it all properly.

That, and to get those new shoes she'd been thinking about earlier, but that was neither here nor there.


	14. Focused Walking

**TITLE: **I Get By

**SUMMARY: **After being rescued by an unlikely classmate, things get complicated.

**CHARACTERS: **Remy, Jean-Paul, Jeanne-Marie, Sam.

**RATING: **T

**WARNINGS: **Language.

**DISCLAIMER: **I, LithiumAddict, a.k.a. Percy O'Leary, am not in any way shape or form connected to Marvel Comics, Fox Entertainment, or any other related group. I therefore do not own any of the characters represented here. This is fan-fiction, and a labour of love on my part and in no way an intention to undermine the previously mentioned organizations or their intellectual property.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **OH SWEET BLUE COFFEE CUPS. HOW LONG HAS IT BEEEEEEN? Seriously though. It's been a while, and I blame it on my lack of computer savvy. I lost all my in-progress fanfiction in a horrific laptop crash, and as such it has taken up until now to re-write this chapter to the point where I feel it's up to snuff. Of course, there's more to it than that, but the point is I finally got my ass in gear and wrote some more. You are all saints for putting up with me and my ridiculously sporadic updates, and you can never hear that enough.

A couple words about this story, now that _X-Men Origins: Wolverine_ has rendered it non-canonical (or whatever the cool kids are calling it these days). I had intended to finish this fic before that movie came out, so it could still be considered canon compliant at its completion. Clearly, that didn't happen. As such, as far as "I Get By" is concerned, _Wolverine _never happened. I'm continuing to draw from the content of the three X-Flicks, and from the epilogue of the novelization of X3, in which we are introduced to Remy as a teenager training under Logan with the New Recruits, and am conveniently ignoring all else. Cool? Cool.

ANYHOW. A shorter chapter this time around, which I hope you'll excuse. There's a reason for what I'm doing here though. I promise. Give me a couple more chapters to make this all make sense, m'kay? And as always, enjoy.

* * *

For once in her life, Jeanne-Marie was left almost speechless.

"I don't believe it," she said after a moment in which she searched for a comeback that would be appropriate to the situation. "You actually did it."

Remy, leaning against her dresser, was doing an admirable job of pretending to be distant and thoughtful.

"Yeah. I did."

"So you've got her to meet you, hopefully. What are you going to do?"

"I figured go some place. Maybe do something."

"How alarmingly specific. Care to elaborate?"

"Not particularly."

"I don't see why this needs to be cloaked in mystery."

"Chalk it up t'bad habit."

"So you tell us that you've talked with her, arranged a date--"

"— don't know if I'd call it a _date_ –"

"—but are holding out on any other juicy details."

"Yeah. Pretty much."

Rising out of her chair so she could look Remy almost in the eye – bastard still had a good eight inches on her – she announced her opinion of the situation.

"I think you just like messing with me."

Remy perched himself on the dresser, thereby making himself even taller, and offered Jeanne-Marie a lopsided grin that she might have found charming were she not in the midst of a quickly failing recon mission.

"Remy, has anyone ever told you how much you suck at this game?"

Jean-Paul, lying prone on the bed with the nearly unreadable chicken scratch that was Jeanne-Marie's World History notes from yesterday, finally looked up.

"Leave the boy be, Jeanne-Marie. We'll beat the full rundown out of him after."

The suspicious look from Remy was only to be expected given the dubious save he'd just received.

"I'm not sure if I should be saying thanks, or planning how to avoid you when I get back."

"Better go for both, just to be safe," Jean-Paul recommended, shuffling through all the papers before him. "Now where the hell are all the notes from the lecture on D-Day?"

Jeanne-Marie turned around and opened the top drawer of her desk to pull out the binder she was sure had those specific notes in it, glancing at the clock radio on her bedside table just in time to see it flip over to 10:56. As she threw a slim white binder at her brother, she looked towards Remy.  
"You better get going."

After picking up the post bag he'd taken to carrying his crap around in and rifling through it for those gawd-awful aviator sunglasses he never left the mansion without, Remy looked from one sibling to the other with an oddly vulnerable cast to his expression.

"Wish me luck."

"Just so you know," Jean-Paul said wryly, "unless you're off to go defuse a bomb or something, there's no reason for that look on your face."

Jeanne-Marie grinned, gently shoving Remy towards the door.

"Good luck. Now go."

Once Remy had shut the door behind him, Jean-Paul's smile grew positively Cheshire in its scope.

"You know, there's a great view of the front green from the window down the hall."

"You had no intention of leaving him be," she realized aloud as the pieces fell neatly together.

"Nope."

"You're positively devious."  
"Like you're shocked," he laughed. "I'm also as curious as you are, just a hell of a lot more subtle. Now come on – we're gonna miss the show."

The two of them dashed out of the room and down the hall to a large bay window. As they looked out it, Jean-Paul pointed out the obvious flaw in his previously brilliant plan.

"I'd forgotten how exposed this window is. If they look up, we're toast."

Jean-Marie pretended not to hear this. She frowned though, her brow furrowing rather unattractively as she strained to see what was going on between Remy and Marie. The two of them stood on the green, a healthy distance between them. They were clearly talking, but Jeanne-Marie would be damned if she could figure out what about.

"What are they saying?"

Though it was likely he'd never admit it, Jean-Paul was straining just as hard, and getting nothing for his efforts.

"How the hell am I supposed to know? I'm not a telepath, and I can't read lips. Not from this distance, anyway." He made a brief sound of annoyance.

"Let me guess. This whole spying thing made more sense in your head, right?"

"Mind shutting it, Jeanne-Marie? I'm trying to be nosy."

Over the course of this conversation, Remy and Marie had started heading across the green for the parking lot.

"Should we follow?" Jeanne-Marie asked, twisting herself so as to keep an eye on the two targets for as long as possible.

"How? It's not safe for us to fly off Institute property. Neither of us has a car, and we usually hitch a ride with Remy."

It was at that particular moment that the answer came in the form of one Sam Guthrie happening to wander around the corner and in to her plans. Providence was surely smiling down upon her today, Jeanne-Marie decided. Good old Providence.

"Sam!" she called out, smiling warmly at both her classmate and her good fortune.

Sam's panicked expression spoke of his fight-or-flight response being in good working order.

"Yeah?" he asked cautiously, apparently sensing that something was going on.

"You busy?"

"Why?"

She had to make this quick. Fine. The Coles Notes version then.

"Remy and Marie are heading off somewhere, and he wouldn't tell us where or why or anything. We want to follow them and find out, but we don't have a car. We need a lift, and if you could help us, we'd really appreciate it."

The look of shock and dismay on Sam's face almost made her feel guilty.

"You want to _stalk _them?"

The way he said that made it sound sinister, like they were plotting murder or something instead of wanting to find out what their best friend was trying to keep from them, just like any sane teen would.

"Not exact –"

The eye-roll and interruption from Jean-Paul were simultaneous.

"Yes. We want to stalk them. Would you give us a ride? Please?"

Sam took a couple steps backwards, shifting the biology textbook in his arms so he was holding it almost like a shield.

"Oh no. No, no, no. I'm already on both their shit lists right now. I don't plan on making it worse by helping people stalk them."

"We could reimburse you," Jeanne-Marie tried, growing closer and closer to desperation. Time was growing ever shorter.

"How are you planning on making risking my life worth my while?"

"Risking your life? Isn't that a little overdramatic?"

"Can we hurry this up?" Jean-Paul asked, looking towards the window impatiently. "We're going to lose them."

That sealed it. Jeanne-Marie's posture straightened right up, and she met Sam's eyes with what her brother affectionately referred to as her bitch face.

"Look. We'll tell them that you had no idea what we were doing, take all the blame, be forever in your debt, and cover your ass next time it needs covering for whatever reason. No questions asked."

Sam was wavering now, and Jeanne-Marie delivered the killing blow before she had the chance to think better of it.

"You're on dish duty rotation starting tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah."

"We'll do your week for you."

"Hey!" Jean-Paul scowled. Jeanne-Marie planned to give him a 'victory requires sacrifice' speech later, but right now Sam was so close to giving in.

"Do we have a deal?"

It took a second, but this served to send Sam over the edge. Understandably too; dish duty at the mansion was the least favourite chore on the roster, given the sheer volume of dishes that it involved taking care of.

"Alright," he relented. "But if they do kill me for this – which is likely – I'm coming back to haunt you both."

xXx

"Fall back a little further." Jean-Paul ordered.

Sam stepped on the break, shifting down a gear so as to allow a little more distance between them and the black sedan ahead.

"I'm getting the slightest sense that you guys have done this before."

"I can neither affirm nor deny that accusation," Jeanne-Marie said, leaning forward between the two front seats. "There's a turnoff just under half a kilometer away. Stay close enough behind them to see if they take it, but far back enough that you don't look suspicious."

"Half a kilometer?"

"A quarter mile," Jean-Paul supplied, at which Sam _aaaaahed_. Jeanne-Marie wanted to make a comment about Americans and their seemingly inherent inability to understand the Metric System, but Sam's next question prevented her from doing so.

"You think either of them have caught on yet?"

"Take it easy, Sam. Remy doesn't know that this is your truck. He doesn't know that we're in it, so he doesn't know that we're the ones behind him. You also said when you went shopping with Rogue, you took her car. So she doesn't know what you drive. We're going to be fine."

"She's right. Though five bucks says Remy already knows he's being followed," Jean-Paul mused. "He's always been kind of hyper-aware of stuff like that, you know?"

As Sam's hands tightened on the wheel, Jeanne-Marie kicked the back of her brother's seat. Affectionately, of course.

"Way to help the cause, idiot."

Jean-Paul just shrugged,

"No point in denying facts."

"Haunt. You. Both," Sam reiterated through clenched teeth.

"They're taking the turn-off," Jeanne-Marie pointed out, hoping it would work to divert attention from the potential shit-storm they were wading in to. "That means they're headed in to town."

Sam sped up a little and took the turn-off as well, and looked briefly towards each of his passengers as he shifted back up a gear.

"So, do either of you wanna tell me the whole story behind this?"

"Sure. Why not," Jean-Paul said with a sigh. Passing the plotline back and forth between the two of them, the siblings laid out Remy's misguided courtship and what they knew of Marie.

("You know her powers are back now, right?"

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Oh wow. This just got a whole hell of a lot more interesting."

"Your definition of interesting scares me.")

Once the story was finished, Sam reminded Jean-Paul and Jeanne-Marie about the haunting yet again before making a rather important observation.

"Looks like they're going to the mall."

Jeanne-Marie wrinkled her nose, slightly confused.

"The mall? Why the mall?"

None of them came forward with a particularly compelling reason.

"What the –" Sam started as he made the turn in to the parking lot. "What's going on?"

"Oh _taber-_fucking_-nac,_" Jean-Paul breathed, eyes going wide.

Jeanne-Marie craned her neck so as to look out the front window and see what it was that the boys were looking at, and her own eyes widened as well. She couldn't bring herself to contradict her brother's assessment.

* * *

_Tabernac_ – a uniquely French-Canadian curse. To borrow from the Urban Dictionary, French Canada has a strong tradition of Roman Catholicism, and this sacrilegious word takes the word 'tabernacle' (the location in the church where the Eucharist – the bread that is offered during communion and is believed by Catholics to become the body of Christ during the sacrament of communion -- is stored) in vain. In short, Jean-Paul has a potty mouth in both French and English. You'll see why in the next chapter.


	15. Rabbit Hunt

**TITLE: **I Get By

**SUMMARY: **After being rescued by an unlikely classmate, things get complicated.

**RATING: **T

**WARNINGS: **Language.

**DISCLAIMER: **I, LithiumAddict, a.k.a. Percy O'Leary, am not in any way shape or form connected to Marvel Comics, Fox Entertainment, or any other related group. I therefore do not own any of the characters represented here. This is fan-fiction, and a labour of love on my part and in no way an intention to undermine the previously mentioned organizations or their intellectual property.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **It was pretty much unanimous in the reviews for chapter 14 that I was being:

a) A jerk for leaving you guys with a cliffhanger.

b) A jerk for not showing what was going on between Rogue and Remy.

c) A jerk for taking so figging long to update.

I would be guilty on all three counts, and will likely continue to be so for the remainder of this story. Insert all the usual apologies and thanks for your patience here. We're back with Rogue and Remy now though, and holy crap we have major story development, so hopefully this serves as some sort of appeasement.

A brief word about the mall itself though, before we begin.

Do any of you remember the first episode of _X-Men: The Animated Series_? It takes place in a mall, and the decision to send them to the mall is not only significant to the plot, it's a nod to some source material. Now, does that episode hold clues as to what lies in the future of this story? Kind of, not really. And yes, I'm being intentionally vague.

The title of this chapter comes from a poker term. To borrow from Wikipedia: _After a hand is complete, to reveal cards that would have been dealt later in the hand had it continued. This is usually prohibited in casinos because it slows the game and may reveal information about concealed hands. _Consider the use of a poker term not only apropos for a chapter from Remy's perspective and fitting given the chapter's content, but a tip of the hat to the lovely Lucia de'Medici, who does this consistently with "The Ante". If you're reading, Luce, long days and pleasant nights. Cheers.

* * *

Remy made it to the front green at almost the same time as Rogue. The sense of relief he felt at her actually showing up was something he would never confess. They had last parted on strange terms, and if he were to be honest with himself, he'd been unsure if she would even bother to come. This whole scheme had been run on hope – hope that she hadn't been scared off by their conversation in her room, hope that she'd bother to read his note, hope that she would decide to come. Hope, it seemed, that looked as though it had paid off.

When they met, she stopped just far away enough from him for the distance to be noticeable. If it was just to him (which, given his track record for reading way too damn much into everything, was a distinct possibility) or not, it didn't matter. All he saw was the distance between them. He shook himself silently, reminding himself that she'd shown up and that meant _something. _

Hope.

"Remy." She bobbed her head in greeting.

"I'm glad you're here," he said, wondering if his voice had softened too much with that statement. Vulnerability was a new suit for him; a little stiff still, an awkward fit. Funny how Rogue was making him wear it in so quickly.

It was time to push past metaphors and get something out in the open. Clamping his jaw tight in a way that would ensure she couldn't tell he had, Remy tried with success to pick up and hold Rogue's gaze.

"Look, I'll cut the crap, yeah?" he said. "I'd like to get away from the Institute for a bit. I'd like you to come with me. I'd like to talk with you more. Would that be okay?"

She just looked at him blankly. He sized her up briefly, falling back on his fluency in body language to see just how far he'd pushed the boundaries. There was nothing. Rogue had gone completely blank. If anything at all, she was sizing _him _up. The two of them stood there, taking measure of one another, the brief seconds stretching longer than they were. Something gave in her, and the way she straightened up and tilted her head spoke of a mild suspicion. Good. At least that was something.

"Why?" she asked.

Time to reveal some of his hand. The trick, of course, was choosing the right cards to show.

"You been through a lot way too fast. I figure you could use a chance to blow off some steam and to jus' be away from here. I wanna spend a little time with you, and thought I may as well try for two birds with one stone."

"You're kinda strange, you know that?" she said.

He gave an honest reply, choosing to keep shooting for a light mood in light of the dangerous territory he was treading.

"You're not the first to point it out."

"No, no," she said, shaking her head. "No. I've been trying to figure out what your deal is, and I just don't know. You're incredibly nice to me, and then you'll say something weird. You'll insanely understand, and then all of a sudden you're aloof and cold. Then you leave that note for me, and here you are talking about going _out_?"

Remy took in each word and processed them quickly. Reflecting on his own behavior, he realized that she was on to something with the mixed signals he had sent. He thought that he could probably say the same about her, but this wasn't the time or place. What it was the time and place for was a carefully measured answer.

"Never said anything about it being a date."

"Then what would it be?"

"Two friends jus' decompressing. Would that be alright?"

_Though I'd like to adjust that friends part somehow,_ he finished to himself. One step at a time though. It all had to begin somewhere if it were ever to begin at all.

Remy read a degree of concession in her expression – a yes was probably coming; if anything, it would be a matter of what strings she was going to attach to it.

"Where did you have in mind?"

"The mall just over in town."

"The mall?" she asked, eyebrow cocked warily.

One more card to reveal, he decided.

"Asking if you wanted to go out for lunch would've been a bit much a bit quick. Walking around the mall and chatting is a little less intense and a lot more doable."

"And something you thought I'd be more likely to say yes to."

He shrugged, the gesture calculated.

"Am I wrong?" she pushed.

There were alarmingly few cards left for him to hold to his chest, and she was doing a damn fine job pushing him into playing another. It was a fair question though, and so he said the first words that came to mind that were both honest and still managed to sidestep saying too much.

"Six of one, half dozen of the other, I suppose." He watched her carefully for a reaction. "That mean you gonna say no?"

Rogue took a moment to think. Her entire body softened a little.

"No. I could use a chance to decompress. And a friend."

And that, he told himself, was a win. Sort of.

xXx

"So how you dealing? Doing better?" he asked once they were in his car and he was pulling out of the Mansion grounds and on to the road that would take them into town.

"The initial shock's worn off. Still feeling a little rough around the edges, I guess." She lifted her hands, displaying fitted back gloves. "I'm not loving having to pull these out again, but there wasn't exactly a lot of choice."

"Needs must when the devil drives," Remy replied, nodding.

"The weirdest thing?" she said, giving a forlorn little laugh as she tugged her gloves a little more tightly over her fingers. "It's been so easy to fall back into pattern. Almost like I never lost "

The tentativeness that she'd spoken with did not go unnoticed. He stayed silent in trust that was better than anything he could say.

This lasted a whole five minutes, serving as a textbook example of his inability to leave well enough alone.

"Is it possible for me t'ask 'bout Bobby without sounding like a prick?"

"Probably not," she admitted, and the pause that followed was accompanied by what felt to Remy like a pause in his pulse as something in his chest hardened and prepared to drop. "But I think I need to talk about it."

It wasn't the most positive go-ahead he'd ever received, but he'd take it. Anything to get that damn elephant out of the room. Or car. Whatever.

"So what's going on there?"

"I'm pretty sure I broke up with him."

Resisting the urge to blink rapidly (even though it would be hidden by his sunglasses) or cheer loudly (good on her for finally doing it), he kept a neutral face.

"Pretty sure?"

She opened up the glove compartment, reaching towards the package of cigarettes he kept there before she looked to think better of it and banged the small door shut.

"I know I meant to, but I don't know how clear I was."

The news and the opportunity to get more information was just too good to pass up. With Bobby possibly out of the picture . . .

"What'd you tell him?"

"Something like, 'I need to be alone', or just as dumb."

"Sounds like a kiss-off to me."

"All I know is that I said something and I was sure that I meant it was over. It _needed _to be over."

"I'd say I was sorry, but I don' think you'd buy it."

"I wouldn't," she sighed. "But it was time. It needed to be over. It needed to be. I couldn't keep it up anymore. Or at least, I think that's what it was. Is. I don't even know."

He noted her repetition and stored away the hope it provided in the deep, dark and safe recesses of his memory, proud of her for finally doing something about the asswipe and looking at the potential that this meant the future held despite the return of her powers. She scoffed at herself, leaning back into her headrest.

"Listen to me babble. I'm not even talking sense anymore. And I probably sound like a bad made-for-TV movie or something." Rolling down the window, she rested her arm along the ridge provided as a result, hand and wrist dangling outside. "I'm sorry if it seems like I'm dumping my baggage on you. I'm not trying to be a drama queen, there's just so much going on right now."

"I said I'd be a friend; friends can deal with babble. If you gotta, keep going."

She only did after a few minutes, during which Remy allowed her to be alone with her thoughts. "He apologized too, you know. For everything."

"Isn't that too little, too late?"

"Yeah. Which I think is why I finally got it and ended it."

He spoke next with complete and total truth.

"I'm glad y'kicked him to the curb. Or at least know you should."

"Small miracles, I guess."

The words made him smile, and any double meaning his next comment contained went completely missed by Rogue. Which, given that he was her 'friend' now, was just as well.

"Take 'em where you get 'em."

Remy took a quick glance in the rear view. A rust red pickup truck had been behind them for a while now; it was as he followed a slight curve in the road that the angle was just right to see the driver and passengers.

"We got company," he said, making a mental note to yell at Jean-Paul and Jeanne-Marie later. "Guthrie and the Beaubier twins are following us. Have been for a while, looks like."

Rogue looked over her shoulder.

"Now why would they do that?"

"Guthrie? No clue. The twins? Because they're smart enough to do something that dumb. Turn-off to the mall is here, anyhow. We can lose them inside easy."

As they pulled into the mall, they saw a large crowd growing outside the main entrance.

"What's going on?" he asked, scanning the crowd critically and trying to make out what was happening while pulling into a parking spot at the same time – no mean feat. Rogue's eyes narrowed as she stepped out of the car and performed her own cursory examination.

"Those tee-shirts— "

"Who knows," Remy said, not wanting to believe. "It might not be."

They just walked forward, and on his part at least, needing to be sure even though he (and he imagined Rogue too) already knew. As they drew closer, the truth unfortunate was settled. A bunch of red shirts with stylized torches, all gathered in the parking lot just outside the entrance: it was them.

"Purity," Rogue whispered, tone still managing to be distasteful. The two of them swore in what was as close they could get to silence. Remy touched her upper arm gently.

"Y'know, we could go," he murmured. "This ain't exactly a welcome wagon."

Remy watched as she continued to watch the crowd, frowning.

"That's an understatement."

"We're just getting together," a female at the front of the Purity group said to the gathered news cameras. "We don't have any agenda. We all happen to be of the same political viewpoint, and just happen to be here today."

Remy bit down on his tongue to keep from screaming, willing himself to draw blood before letting any noise out. The girl was Claire, the chick from Henry's who had tried to sell him on Purity. Her pals – the blonde and the really tall one – stood flanking her, and a small sea of matching shirts behind. Bull_shit _there was no agenda. And while on the topic of obvious, it wasn't even surprising that Claire was acting as the organizations' face. Young, pretty, camera friendly, and associated with a fringe political group; you couldn't beat that for top story on the local six o'clock news.

"This is ridiculous!" one voice from the crowd shouted towards the Purity members. "You're here to protest, admit it!"

"We have the right to freedom of assembly and association as guaranteed to us by the Constitution, just as you do." That had come from Claire's blonde sidekick.

"You're hate mongers, that's what you are," a different voice called.

People coming to the defense of mutants? That was new. Remy privately hoped that it was baseline humans saying these things, but knew realistically that it was probably a couple angry mutants lucky enough to be able to blend in with the general populace. Why they were agitating the very group that they should have been the most wary of, he couldn't say, but who knew. Maybe it was baselines after all.

_Dare to dream, _he thought resignedly to himself. The baselines had no real reason to spring to their defense in that way.

Claire replied to this particular accusation.

"If you think that's what Purity is, then you clearly don't understand the mutant threat."

There was something in the tone of the crowd that began to change. Something started shifting, pulsating. There was something _wrong,_ and it was a sensation he recognized. It was the feeling of something about to go south real fast and Remy was ready to bolt. Surely he couldn't be the only one feeling it. When it was this strong, there was no way. Rogue looked towards him and the haunted look in her eyes assured him he was right.

"Let's go. Now."

"Remy," came a voice from behind them. Turning, he saw that it was Jean-Paul, was accompanied by Jeanne-Marie and the Guthrie boy. All three looked distinctly uncomfortable. Hardly shocking, circumstances given. "Remy, what's going on? What the hell are you two doing here?"

He wanted to fire back a 'what the hell were you doing following us', but that could wait until they were gone and safe.

"We should get out of here." Sam was borderline hysterical, though quiet. "We should really, really get out of here. Now. Yesterday. Sooner, if we can."

"Agreed," Rogue said. She opened her mouth to say something further, but never got the chance.

The red shirts suddenly produced weapons, and there was a sudden glint of the sun off some unknown surface that Remy thought looked vaguely humanoid.

All hell broke loose.


	16. Hangman's Coming Down

**TITLE: **I Get By

**SUMMARY: **After being rescued by an unlikely classmate, things get complicated.

**RATING: **K+

**WARNINGS: **Language.

**DISCLAIMER: **I, LithiumAddict, a.k.a. Percy O'Leary, am not in any way shape or form connected to Marvel Comics, Fox Entertainment, or any other related group. I therefore do not own any of the characters represented here. This is fan-fiction, and a labour of love on my part and in no way an intention to undermine the previously mentioned organizations or their intellectual property.

**AUTHOR'S NOTES: **It's been a really frigging long time since this story was updated. Hard to believe, honestly, and there are so many things I could blame, but that's both immaterial and a major cop-out. I would like to thank all of you who are still hanging in there, and those of you who have been so kind with your reviews despite the amount of time that's passed. It's funny how people are still finding and enjoying this story, and there aren't words for how appreciative I am of that. Welcome back to all of you, and hello to you new folk. Hope this lives up to your expectations.

* * *

It was pandemonium.

Guns began firing, screams rang out, and the five teenagers with probably the most to fear from the situation all hit the deck out of well-drilled instinct.

Marie's face hardened as she thought, forearms scraped harshly by the pavement beneath her. The feeling was distant – a noted fact rather than something she was actually feeling.

They were far too close to the action. Staying where they were was not an option. Where could they get that was safe? She looked towards the parking lot first.

No. That was no good. There was no way they could make it to their vehicles through the crazed mob around them in time or without too great a risk of getting shot.

"The mall," Jean-Paul supplied. "We could get inside the mall."

Jeanne-Marie looked at her brother in amazement.

"You're nuts."

"No," Remy said. "No, he's right. There's places there we can hide and think. Stores, janitors' closets, back halls, back rooms."

Jeanne-Marie still didn't seem completely convinced. Marie saw the sense of this though, and the question then became one of logistics.

"We've got three flyers here. If we do this right, we can glide right to the mall under the line of fire. How low can you guys fly?"

As she spoke, she realized she'd suddenly taken on the role of leader, or at least something like it. It seemed awkward and inappropriate, but like her forearms, it was a distant knowledge. There would be time to mull this over later. Right now, she had to make sure there would_ be_ a later.

"About a foot, if I'm careful," Sam answered. The twins murmured that it was about the same for them, though it was Jean-Marie who caught her line of thought and responded.

"If we've gotta carry you two though, I don't know. Probably more – two feet? Three?"

This left Marie wavering. That sort of height seemed a bit high for her liking what with the gun-wielding maniacs around. In that moment she felt as though she were outside herself, an observer watching Marie think, speak, and work. Someone looking on a woman stepping up and being surprised at what they were seeing. Marie wondered just how she was capable of any of this. Was it the time she'd spent watching Danger Room sessions? Was it the combined expertise of everyone she'd ever absorbed coming together when she needed it most? The whole thing was beginning to scare her – the situation, the part she was apparently playing in it, and the fact that everything about _everything_ here felt wrong.

_Focus, Marie, _she reprimanded herself. _No time. Think. Think. What now?_

Everyone looked towards her in expectation. She pursed her lips before making a decision.

"As long as we don't get over two and a half feet, we should be safe. Safe enough, anyhow."

"I get why going to the mall is smart, but someone mind reminding me why flying to the cars and getting the hell out of dodge has been ruled out?" Sam asked, and Marie was back and present in her body. Remy answered the concern.

"We'd be flying right at the gunfire. And even if we make it t'the cars, they'll see us for sure and know we're mutants. They'd follow us. If we go to the mall at least we got a -"

"We don't have time to argue," Marie said, sounding more capable than she felt. The wheels in her head were screaming as they turned at an alarming pace. Psyches and Danger Room profiles flew through her head. The plan came together as it fell from her mouth. "Jean-Paul, grab Remy. Jean-Marie, take me. Sam, you fly last. If we're lucky, you might be able to keep us covered with that force field of yours."

Everyone blinked a moment, the second frozen in the midst of the gunfire. The rest of the group had seemed to see that shift in Marie, and the expressions on their faces in that moment were unsettling. It passed quickly though. Like it or not, even intentionally or not, Xavier's had been shaping them into a unique breed of soldier. They knew how to spring to action when it was time, and they knew when to follow direct orders from a commander. How Marie had become that commander didn't matter. Her instructions, on the other hand, did.

Jean-Marie and Jean-Paul grabbed their passengers and took off low and fast. Sam followed, and Marie barely had time to react before they were right in front of the mall. She crossed her arms over her face to protect it as Jean-Marie slammed through the glass of the door. They came to a skidding, tumbling landing a little ways inside, resulting in Marie crashing into a garbage can. The protection of adrenaline kept the pain at bay. That would keep until they were safe, at which point it would hit full force. That was later though. Right now was more important. The three boys were close behind, all coming to similarly awkward landings due to how low they'd been flying. They all rose carefully, looking outside the damaged door and wondering if they'd been seen.

Marie moved warily towards the door and scanned the outside. It was hard to pick out anything distinct – just chaos - but then she saw something moving in their direction. Person shaped and glittering, bullets glanced off it as it got closer to the door.

Sam, who had followed Marie to the door, was the one to recognize her.

"It's Emma!"

He crouched by the broken window, poking his head out and waving towards Emma as she came sprinting towards them.

"Get inside!" Sam yelled. She dove towards the window, and Sam caught her as she came through, swinging her to the side and to the closest thing they had to safety. So that potential for a 'diamond form' that Emma's Danger Room profile had mentioned was more than just potential, Marie noted. She tallied that up in their assets column as the girl shifted back to flesh and blood.

Marie braced her back against the wall right next to the door as she tried to focus again. What was their next move? Emma was bobbing her head towards Sam in thanks, about to say something when Remy spoke up.

"That door won't stop 'em," he said, yanking Marie down and away from the door. Everyone else followed his lead, getting as close to the ground as they could. "And it sure as hell ain't gonna stop bullets. Emma's entrance there'll have attracted attention."

"We need to move," Marie agreed. "On foot though. No need to make it any more obvious we're mutants. On three, we make a break for it."

They did.

The sound of gunfire had not gone unnoticed by those inside the mall. It was emptying fast, people running for exits in panic. The current of people was moving towards the back exit, as far away from the insanity out front as possible. Marie tried to recall the layout of the mall, wondering if maybe they should follow the crowd out that way. There was nothing there though, just a truck entrance and a road lined with a high concrete wall that looped back around to the front of the mall – exactly where they didn't want to be.

Three flyers, three foot-bound people. Maybe they could fly up and over the wall . . .

No. That would mean getting high enough to be seen, and risked too much attention. The mall. They needed to stay in the mall until they figured something out.

"What are we looking for?" Jean-Marie asked, pulling her from these thoughts. It was eerie how easily and quickly the answers were coming.

"The nearest store with one of those metal doors you can pull down."

xXx

It happened to be a jewelry store.

With everyone in, Sam and Remy – the tallest of them – reached up and grabbed the large metal panel that served as a door and dragged it down along its runners to the ground. At the sound of the lock clicking into place, the group seemed to give a collective exhale. They all collapsed to sitting positions, and Marie watched them collect and steady themselves.

Remy was sitting with his back against the door. He knocked on it, seeming to test the material.

"If they come inside the mall, this won't stop them either. Y'all know that, right?"

"It's at least bought us some time," Emma said. "Right now, I'll take that."

They took a minute to try and calm themselves. How well that was working out was unclear.

"You went diamond," Marie finally said. "They pulled out the guns and you went diamond."

Emma's response was scorn mixed with a healthy dose of fear.  
"I couldn't help it! They pulled out guns, and it just happened. I was _scared._"

"It's not blame, Emma. I'm just trying to figure this all out right now."

Taking a quick glance at his watch, Remy frowned.

"Cops are on the way; the ones outside at the protest would have called for backup by now. They're probably going to bring in S.W.A.T. too, thanks t'the fucking _armory _Purity brought along," he spat. Jean-Paul's face was contorted with thought.

"That'll still take some time though, won't it? How fast can S.W.A.T. actually respond?"

"The cops'll be here fast. S.W.A.T.'s gonna be twenty to forty minutes," Remy replied absently, "I'd lean closer to forty, since we're a little out of the way and they'll be coming from New York proper." Everyone seemed a little surprised, but no-one asked exactly how he would know this sort of thing. Now, as with a good deal of other things, was obviously not the time. "The cop presence will keep the Purity asswipses from dispersing. With S.W.A.T. coming too, no way they're getting out of here clean either. But there's no way in hell they're just gonna stand there and wait."

"They're gonna need a fortress," Sam said quietly, and from the looks on the others' faces, Marie knew that all of them understood exactly what he meant. The Purity bastards were going to take the mall. Jeanne-Marie looked especially grave.

"What do we do then?"

"We've got to call the Mansion," Jean-Paul said. "We've got to get someone – anyone – out here."

Emma's frown marked her disapproval.

"We're NOT calling in the third string."

"Third string?"

All eyes snapped towards Emma, who explained herself in a staccato fire of words.

"The All-Stars are out fetching the not-quite-as-dead-as-assumed Mister Summers and are thusly off the grid right now. The third line would be Jubilee, Blink and the rest of them, and to be frank? I don't think it would be especially safe for them to come here even if we did call them. I don't think any of us feel like putting them in what's possibly a more dangerous situation than the one we're in. The X-Men are the ones with the Kevlar and the training for this sort of crap. Unfortunately, they're not available and we don't have the luxury of time. We've officially been relegated to penalty killer status, and we have to step the hell up."

The news about Mister Summers was new to Marie, not to mention especially welcome, but as with most things right now it had to be put aside. Later.

"Do I even want to know what's up with this sports analogy?" Jean-Paul asked, leaning his head back against the wall of their hiding place. This act did not appear to amuse Emma, whose eyes narrowed to laser focus on him.

"You think this is _funny_?"

"Would you two cut it out?" Sam interrupted. "Penalty killers don't play the game. They hold out until the first line gets back. We're not going to be able to do this alone. We'll need help."

"Seeing as the first line is a little occupied right now, do you have any recommendations?"

Jeanne-Marie rolled her eyes. "If you two would stop using that stupid hockey metaphor thing, that'd be great."

"Everyone be _quiet_," Marie said, voice sharpening. God, none of it felt right at all coming from her, and yet there it was. Wolverine's psyche radiated a sort of pride regardless. _You're doing fine, kid. Keep it up. _She tried to draw strength from this as she began to lay things out. "What we know is this – Purity is outside, and we don't know for how long. We can't stay in here once they're in. Everyone just bolted and wouldn't have bothered to close up the stores, which means this door is going to give us away, 'cause it's going to be the only closed one. Any help we can call right now wouldn't be any help, or won't get here in time. For now, it's just us."

"So that's the situation. What's the objective?" Sam asked, falling back on the language of the Danger Room and X-Men training. Marie wanted to answer that it was to get out of there without getting noticed, but that possibility was feeling more and more remote.

"Everyone in the mall and outside's gotta be long gone now. I don't think we're gonna get out of here without these guys finding us, and even if we do, they're at least going to catch us getting to the cars."

Jean-Paul frowned.

"So why not just make a run for it once we get out? We don't have to fly, so they won't know we're mutants."

"They're firing on civilians," Jeanne-Marie pointed out. "It wouldn't matter what they think we are."

Emma had nodded at Jeanne-Marie's statement.

"The question still stands though. What's the objective?"

The group took a collective breath. The answer was there, they all knew it. It was simply a matter of someone articulating it.

"Stop them," Marie said simply, and that breath was released. "We can at least try and fend them off long enough to get in touch with the roster X-Men and get them out here. It's like Sam said: we've got to hold on until the cavalry arrives."

Emma looked as though she were willing to concede to this (for which Marie was thankful), and went on to speak pointedly.

"Sam was also right when he said we won't be able to do this alone. We're not enough, and like I said, calling the Mansion for help isn't going to be a good idea. How do we hold the fort long enough for the X-Men to get here?"

Remy, who had been curiously silent until now, muttered something under his breath that sounded like a curse. It certainly wasn't in English, and since twins' eyebrows took hikes for their foreheads at his words, Marie figured that her guess was right.

"You got an idea, Remy?"

"I think."

"What is it?"

"Anyone got a cell on them?" Remy asked, sounding exhausted. It was Emma who dug into the small purse she'd actually managed to keep hold of throughout the debacle so far. A small white phone was produced, and she passed it over to Remy. He dialed a number, and the rest of the group could only sit silent and listen as he made his call.

"Henri, it's Remy. I need some help."

The name Henri brought Marie back to a night (it felt like forever ago) that she'd sat in Remy's room and he'd indicated his brother, Henri, in a photograph. Why on earth he'd be calling his brother now was beyond her. She'd assumed all his family was back in New Orleans. What could Henri do for them from there?

"I'm at the mall just outside Westchester. Remember those Purity chicks?"

A pause as he listened.

"They decided to take over the place, and brought some well-armed friends. Me and mine are stuck inside and could use some help." Remy closed his eyes and looked nearly meditative for a moment. He continued, inflection changed. It was cool and professional as he went on. "Southeast entrance is covered hard and heavy. Smart money says if they're not in and sweepin' the place now, they're gonna be right quick. Some of them look like they know what they're doing; maybe basic military training. Hard to say. They'll be moving ground floor up. Definitely closin' and covering all exits as they go – they're taking and defending a castle."

Remy nodded.

"Yeah. The skylights in the Southwest corner are prob'ly your best entry point. Clock's tickin'."

He listened for another moment, and nodded decisively.

"We'll meet you there. I'm gonna owe you huge for this."

Remy close the cell phone, and tossed it back to Emma. While everyone was somewhat confused, Jean-Marie was the only one who moved straight through to suspicion.

"What was that?"

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, and Marie could tell he was feigning lightheartedness. "I just roped us some All Stars."

Pragmatics. Tactics. Marie forced herself to think, and all she could come up with were questions.

"How is that going to work? If we can't get out with attracting attention, how are your All-Stars gonna get in? Especially from the _skylights_?"

While the question of just what Remy had done remained unspoken, Marie found herself looking at him a little differently. It felt as though a layer had been peeled away from him, and she had just glimpsed something closer to the core of who he was than anything she'd previously seen. What that something was, she couldn't quite place.

Remy's smile was touched by melancholy.

"You ain't met these All-Stars," he answered dryly.

The room was quiet. Marie hoped to hell that Remy's All-Stars were as good as he seemed to think.


End file.
